A gunshot rings out. One crisp, clear, haunting snap. Sound waves like
bullet shells ricochet off the walls of surrounding buildings. These walls
still hold the memory of a different soundscape – of laughter and handshakes
that end in affectionate finger snaps. Now the neighbourhood is empty and the
remaining voices are hushed in fear as the gunshots fire again. Most families
have already fled north to the unhappy welcome of Chadian villagers. Unhappy
because political boundaries don’t separate the traditional ties between the two
nations and the Chadian southerners may assume the worst about the arriving
refugees – “You killed my brother!” they’ll shout in accusation. Unwelcomed and
unarmed, the persecuted ones become visitors and squatters in the Chadian
wilderness just as a visitor crouches unwelcomed and unarmed in the doorway of
their abandoned brick home. Her bulletproof vest sports a badge of neutrality –
PRESS – while the French flag on her shoulder carries an inherited power
dynamic, like a messy divorce after an abusive marriage. Normally a visitor in
this village would be received with honour, long handshakes, warm greetings,
and more food and drink than she could handle. But the visitor understands that
this is no time for lingering moments and social graces. Despite the
pre-written colonial prologue she’s determined to help write a peaceful ending
to this story. From the base of the brick-framed doorway she watches some small
children run across the courtyard, instinctively ducking as the deadly clatter
strikes again somewhere in the much too near distance. Two young girls race
across a no-mans-land that used to be home, dragging a bewildered toddler in
tow, together seeking the cover of bricks and the comfort of an adult.
Instinctively, the visitor raises her voice in encouragement and raises her
camera to capture the moment.*
- -
-
An alarm sounds. One long, sustained, annoying tone. Supper is ready,
and your friends will be here any minute. There are no night classes today and
there’s a concert in the student life center. It’s true you don’t know much
about it but one of your friends is in the show and you could use something fun
to get your mind off all the midterm stress. An hour or so later you find
yourself approaching the front of a ticket line. You’re looking for some
indication of the student price when your eyes meet the two dimensional stare
of a small girl, holding her sister in one hand and a tattered blanket in the
other, running towards you in desperate search for security. You see so many
wars on the news that images like this one hardly surprise you anymore… but for
some reason this time you can’t look away. The girls remind you of your own
little sisters and for a brief moment, you’re the one holding the camera,
shouting encouragement to the vulnerable children, heart aching for their
safety. Just for a moment. Then an enthusiastic voice jolts you back into your
own pair of clean, comfortable shoes. “Suggested $5 donation please! Proceeds
go to peace and development work in Central Africa!” You pull a 10 out of your
wallet and pause for a second… taking your change would mean a Starbucks in the
morning, but on second thought… “Thank you very much! Enjoy the show! …Hi
there! Suggested $5 donation please! Proceeds go to…” The volunteer’s speech
fades into the bustle of the foyer as you enter the auditorium. You relax into
a discussion with your friends about the recent Olympics and the vibrant energy
of the growing audience keeps you firmly planted in your shoes. It’s nice when
Friday evening entertainment supports a good cause.
- -
-
A song rings out. A rhythmic, catchy, repetitive melody.
Under the shade of a modest sun shelter, a choir sways together in matching, vibrantly
coloured, patterned dresses and head scarves, characteristic of Chadian
Christian attire. Behind them, another choir of Muslim high-school aged girls
await their turn to serenade the President of the Republic. Thousands are
gathered, filling in every available inch of shade underneath a single row of
colourful mats that have been propped up along the edge of one of the few well
paved roads in the capitol. Shaded by a larger-than-life Chadian flag, the president
is seated in the center of the National Square on an extravagant throne, his
hand-picked dignitaries enjoy cushy theatre seating behind him and the three
heads of the Muslim, Catholic, and Protestant faiths sit side by side at his right
hand. This is the day when the religious leaders of the nation gather with
their followers to commemorate a time of ‘Peaceful Living-Together and National
Unity’. The mood is festive and the proceedings are formal. Security is showy –
soldiers and tanks (recently retired from civil war) are standing guard while
the choir sings:
“We want, we want
Peace!
We want, we want Joy!
We want, we want Love!
…for all Chadians!”
We want, we want Joy!
We want, we want Love!
…for all Chadians!”
It’s a heartwarming image of hope, harmony and
healing… or so it appears from the comfortable chairs under the Chadian big
top. Meanwhile the eyes on the street take in the scene with seasoned
skepticism for the fanfare of the authorities.
The words sound sweet… “All
religions carry as part of their faith a message of peace… We must come to
appreciate one another”** …and the image is charming – look now as the leaders of the three faiths and the president himself
release four peace doves into the sky… watch as they fly away in glorious hope!
…but these personalities in their comfortable chairs and clean shoes have yet
to earn the trust of the people. In the morning the newspaper will read:
Extra! EXTRA! Read all about it! “SACRAMENT OF HYPOCRACY!”
“To speak the truth, this day of prayer is
purely a formula… [of] fallacious discourse. Peace
is not something that you can decree. Peace is not imposed by political dialogue...
Peace is another precept, more serious that is found at the foundation of the
human heart and that manifests itself in human actions, coming from our inner
strength. Do the incantations of these religious men… really come from the
heart? …In short, it is not sufficient to pray [for peace], but it is also
necessary to put in the personal efforts to instil… justice [in our country].”***
The rich and the poor, the Muslims and Christians, the
influential and the ordinary. There are so many walls in a labyrinth of
conflict.
- -
-
Why is this post written this way?
Why is this post written this way?
The three stories in this blog post represent two ‘historical
fictions’ based on the current atrocities in Central African Republic (CAR) and
from my life as a university student in Waterloo. The third is a true to life
description of an event that I attended last month in N’Djamena. I framed my
reflections this way because all three of these realities feel very close to me
at the moment and I’ve been thinking about the connections between them. How
does my life in Waterloo connect with the stories of CAR refugees arriving in
my current neighbourhood? And what does our peace work in N’Djamena have to do
with someone in Canada reading this blog? These questions are bigger than a
blog post, but perhaps you are already seeing your own connections. To
highlight just one of my own connections, I invite you to think for a moment
about the term “global community.”
I don’t know about you, but I am someone who takes
community to heart. A healthy community is diverse, accepting, vibrant, safe, fun,
supportive, nurturing… and creating a healthy community takes people who are
willing to invest meaningfully in one another’s lives. That is hard enough in
our own families, so what does it mean to be part of a global community? This post
tells three stories but it could easily tell three thousand. It’s impossible
for us to separate our stories from the history that’s unfolding around the
world, so who will we take time to connect with? Which stories will you weave
together, and which ones will you write yourself?
**Archbishop of Moundou. In a public speech at La Place de la Nation, January 25, 2014. Translated to English.
***Moussaye. (February 10,
2014). “Sacrement de l’hypocrisie.” Published in the Abba Garde, N’Djamena, Chad. Translated to English.
