Finishing the Chapter

“England” is beginning to feel more like an invention than a reality.

Six weeks of stifling humidity and cloaking dust have made me question my memories of biting cold, incessant drizzle, and cloaking fog. Is there really a land where this exists?

Meticulous organisation seems equally like a laughable concept. I am not sure that I believe myself when I picture wide, concrete pavements free from the paraphernalia of goods that are peddled at the roadside. Is there really a world where everything has a non-negotiable price; where stopping in the middle of the road for a conversation would either result in instant death or an earful of expletives from a passing driver?

I am not sure if I would prefer to return to this imaginary land, or to remain in my current reality. Returning to England would give me the reprieve of not having my posh accent stand out a mile. My bizarre turns of phrase like “I’m up for that” and “nutty as a fruitcake” would be considered banal rather than worthy of mockery. England would be a land where everyone would speak my language and French would hardly be needed at all.

Yet at the same time, I am beginning to feel at home in this chaos, and flying back would create frustration and a fair amount of culture shock. Surely no country exists where vegetables are thrown away after two days, and where perfectly wholesome food rots in skips two streets away from impoverished council estates?

Plastic gloves and food hygiene certificates seem comical as I stand at the roadside for my avocado sandwich; complementary flies nonchalantly swatted away.

Through this process, I have begun to see myself as a chameleon rather than an ugly duckling who cannot identify with either culture. Being adaptable to a variety of countries and climates is a huge benefit. There is a great advantage in being equally comfortable with tossing a freezing cold bucket of water over my head as taking a scalding hot power-shower.

Fully aware that my rusty-orange chameleon skin may soon have to change to grey-blue in the transition back to England, I feel a definite twinge of sadness. Friendships from all over the world have been forged in Togo: it is bittersweet to realise that this may have been the only season where my path will ever cross with such a wonderful group of people.

On the other hand, there are things about my work at “le CACIT”, that I will not miss: the hours in front of the computer trawling through admin, the projects I agonised over that ended up in the Recycling Bin; the sinking realisation that a lot of what I was doing had been created to appease a white intern rather than to create change.

Overall, I am glad that I did the internship. I have definitely achieved my objective of  greatly improved French. I now have some understanding of how Human Rights Law works within a professional context, even if I do not feel that the Human Rights Situation in Togo is remotely different to how it was six weeks ago. 

I was pretty naïve to think that I could create change within such a short period: the Togolese have been fighting for ten years and have still not received a single Franc in reparation from the government.  

However, my time here has reinforced my suspicion that the source of Africa’s problems resides in my half of the globe rather than theirs. The reason that the Togolese citizens have not received reparation for being tortured by the armed forces in 2005 is because just like his father Eyadema, the current President, Faure Gnassingbé, is fully supported by the French. During the clampdown the soldiers fired French bullets at civilians from French guns.

All over Africa, the fortunes of the corrupt are comfortably stashed in Swiss bank accounts.

I was horrified to discover that the United Kingdom is the world’s second largest weapons exporter. We stand on our moral high ground and condemn the rest of the world, only to discover that our platform of piety consists of the bones of the nations that we have crushed.

If we want to change the lives of impoverished Africans, we first need to wash the blood off our own hands. We need to tell our government to remove the stranglehold of debt that the West leaves “developing” nations in: forcing them to always be economically dependent upon us. We need to stop buying 30p chocolate, and pay Africans a decent wage for our exploitation of their raw materials. We need to support African entrepreneurships. We need to stop throwing our clothes in the bin every time we get “bored” of them.

I always find a dark amusement in noticing the clothes of the passers-by. They are either wearing a kaleidoscope of multi-coloured traditional outfits, or an oddment of assorted western clothes. KFC uniforms are combined with Donald Duck pyjama bottoms. I had to blink twice as I walked past a scrawny child with a “Feed the Children” T-Shirt hanging off his bony shoulders.

These are all clear signs of what the locals call “Dead Yovo Clothes”. It is impossible for the Togolese to believe that the clothes that have been donated to them from western countries could ever have been taken from the bodies of the living. Which human being has that many clothes that they can give them away to others? The only logical explanation was that they were taken off corpses during the preparation for their funerals.

I do believe that the West can right their wrongs. One of my heroes is a man named William Wilberforce. For eighteen years he fought for the abolition of the slave trade. He was the constant butt of jokes as he was ridiculed by the British Parliament. They told him that his absurd ideals would bankrupt the entire British Empire. Even if they did free the slaves, surely the French and German Empires would just sweep in and claim them instead?  Besides, it was blatantly clear that the slaves actually enjoyed their bondage so why deprive them of such a pleasure?

 Undeterred for eighteen years, Wilberforce incessantly petitioned parliament for the abolition of the slave trade. He never let go of his desire to be a voice for the voiceless; an ideal that was formed within him when he became a Christian  in the 1780s.

In 1807, the slave trade was finally abolished, and in 1833, all existing slaves were freed within the British Empire.

Privileged Westerners could have come to Togo for six weeks and mopped the poor slaves’ brows as they were dragged onto slave ships, but that would have done nothing to change the fact that slaves were about to commence the most hideous voyage of their lives, where many of them would not live to see the American shore. For those Westerners, refusing to eat slave produced sugar and wear slave cotton would have been a far louder cry for change.

I do not regret coming to Togo. I feel no shame in admitting that this has been a time of personal investment, rather than a time of giving to others. The panic that I was initially consumed with as my aeroplane slowly descending upon Lomé, has now been replaced by the confidence to wanderer alone across three countries.  The fear that I once felt expressing my opinions has now been replaced by the fear of not wanting to appear too confident.  I have matured, developed and asked an enormous amount of questions. I have tried to understand other peoples’ perspectives and philosophies. I have learnt to trust God with the future, and walk with Him in the present.

Above all, I have learnt not to associate sensitivity with weakness. I strongly believe that if more people empathised with others as acutely as I do, then mindless torture would be impossible. No soldier, brutally aware that the rest of his week would be spent reliving the gunshots: the petrified faces of his victims seared into his eyeballs, would ever be able to break upon the front door. It takes great strength to be weak.

I feel equal exhilaration and anxiety as I consider the following chapter: adventuring through Togo, Ghana and Benin. There have been numerous times when the magnitude of what I am about to do has paralysed me and left me frozen in indecision.

However, the fact that I am currently on the other side of the world from friends and family means that I have no safety blanket to run to. I still have twelve days until my plane leaves, and I want to make the most of every last minute. I have dreamed of travelling through Africa for so long. Once the niggling details have been smoothed over, then I hope that the anxiety will dissolve as I embrace the adventure before me.

Discovering my limitations has also been extremely helpful. It is useful to know when to terrify myself, and when to hold back. I decided to abandon my trip to Northern Togo, as I realised that it would have created more anxiety than enjoyment. There is nothing wrong with having limitations. Closing one door often opens another.

I have no idea what I will see or who I will meet in the next ten days. I simply know that it will be an adventure, and that I will return home with plenty of stories to tell.

Things to pray for:

·         For safety during my travels

·         That the border crossings will go smoothly, especially crossing to and from Ghana

·         Praise God that I have been given the opportunity to visit IJM’s offices in Accra, (www.ijm.org) and pray that it will be an incredibly worthwhile time.

·         Pray that I will be able to relax and recuperate after my six weeks of working.

Making a List

I am aware that I have an incredibly sheltered and privileged existence, and there is an enormous list of things that I hate about Togo, but as I savour the end of another day, it is nice to reflect upon what it is that makes this place so special:

·  Every day is an adventure. The unexpected sights and sounds and smells, although frustrating and sometimes overwhelming, mean that I am always encountering the unexpected, whether that is trying bizarre tasting food at the roadside, cramming through stalls full of shampoo and fried herring at the market, or trying to persuade the adamant Ghanaian that I do NOT want to give him my number.

· The sunsets. A liquid ruby orb swims in the sky each day on my way home, and reminds me how wonderful it is to be alive.

·Everyone speaks at least three languages. Languages and cultures and accents and backgrounds are all woven together; locals skip seamlessly between French and Ewé every second syllable. There are so many stories to be heard from people who have walked such far-flung corners of the world.

·       ·  I am finally beginning to communicate. It feels liberating that one of my closest friends here does not speak any English and I do not (yet) speak any Spanish. The gift of a second language means that we can connect in French!

I love also the sense of satisfaction that comes from the face of a disgruntled taxi driver when I refuse to pay Yovo (white man) tax, and manage to bargain my journey down to Amiyebo (local) price.

·         ·At weekends, I love being able to poke my finger on a map and say: “Let’s go here.”

I love the adventure and hassle that comes from trying to navigate a new place, and discovering that suddenly  there is a lake that needs to be crossed by punt and that this is actually a funeral that I have just invited myself to. Each horizon is brand new.

·       ·  There is something wonderful about finding that despite many differences, there are ways to connect with local people. Bringing my flute has turned into a massive blessing, as it means that I can connect musically. Even if I cannot connect with a common background or language, there is an undeniable bond that comes from creating an extra thread in the rich harmonies that weave and swirl into a tapestry of sound.

·      ·  I love eating with my hands again. There is nothing better than laying aside cutlery, and wrapping my fingers in warm, doughy Fufu lathered in spicy sauce.

Choosing a strange string of words on the menu creates a feeling of anticipation as I wait to discover which bizarre concoction will be dolloped onto my plate this time.

·      · Everything has so much more flavour. In Togo no on needs to pump nutrients back into shrivelled fruit that has been dragged half way around the world: here it was harvested a few hours ago.

 There is no sense of disappointment as I take my first bite of fresh mango or papaya: a shockwave of juice explodes in my mouth and runs down to my elbows. Blandness does not exist in Togo.  

·         ·I love having my vision of “life” turned on its head. Even the simplest things, like my idea of politeness, or how to cross a road, have now been flung out of the window. I no longer know where to even start on the fundamental questions, let alone the profound.

It feels completely refreshing to have the cobwebs of complacency brushed aside as I am completely rethink my ideals.

Every day is a rollercoaster ride where one minute I have to stop myself dancing down the street, niftily dodging the open drains, and the next I am clamouring to get on the next plane home.

However, my time here increases, and the feeling of being an incapable toddler is fading away, I can feel myself deeply connecting with this place. The everyday chaos is beginning to make a strange kind of sense.

 I am glad that I am only staying for two months, as this is a culture that I think I could fall in love with.

Glimmers through the bars

Sitting in a cell surrounded by dust and cobwebs and crumbling brickwork, I was taken aback by the humanity of the people that I met. Somehow, standing in a circle with twenty prisoners, of all walks of life, nationalities and backgrounds: some innocent, some guilty of “crimes” ranging from abortion to murder, I felt safe.

The smiling eyes and warm handshakes spoke of familiarity and friendship: I could be at a dinner party, or a church service, rather than in one of Togo’s highest security prisons.

We discussed human rights and how they affected their daily lives; the topics ranged from self-control to prison guard brutality.

 All the while there was a cacophony of squawking chickens, whirring sewing machines, guttural shouts and clobbering hammers. All of this was amalgamated with the smells of pungent sewage and charcoal fires. It was very difficult to concentrate.

Holding hands, we prayed. Reverently unfolding their dog-eared copies, the prisoners read aloud from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It seemed to remind them that they were human; that they were valuable. Every now and again there was a ripple of hollow laughter as they recalled that basic dignity and humanity also applied to prisoners.

We heard how the prison guards took forty minutes to unlock the cell door when a friend of theirs was having an epileptic fit. The guards were blind to the thrashing, contorted body on the floor until the money had been found for the medical bill.

 Once their friend had been unceremoniously removed, they were informed that the prison’s only car had just broken down. With deepest regrets, their friend could not be taken to hospital after all.  When he was returned to them the next morning, their friend shakily recounted how the guards’ remedy for epilepsy was dumping him on the stairs overnight. Of course this required payment. The six thousand francs were not returned.

The night before our meeting, their friend Andre had suddenly started coughing up mucus, despite being perfectly healthy just a few hours earlier. He was taken away by the guards, and the next morning pronounced dead.

For the first time, shock and quiet despair bore deep into the lines of their faces. Their slack eyes were consumed by the middle distance as their minds paced across the same rocky path of unanswered questions and impossibilities.

The bonds of friendship created in this prison are hard to break. Here, the prisoners laugh together; share dreams together and collectively bear the brunt of their shackles. The shock of losing a brother; snatched out of the blue, was unimaginable.

We finished the meeting with the weary conclusion that yet another letter had to be thrust in the face of the Minister for Justice. Hopefully something would change.

Afterwards, I walked to a smaller cell, to interview several mothers who were imprisoned with their babies. There was something intensely horrible about a new-born, whose wide eyes drank in his surroundings and perceived “normality”.

 Slumped naked in his mother’s lap; dribbling lollipop in one milky, sludgy stream, the cell was this baby’s universe. The idea that there was a world outside the bars and padlocks and overcrowding was inconceivable.

The lady who I interviewed was pregnant. Her globulous eyes jutted out against her hollow cheeks; her lips twitching of their own accord as she revealed her miserable conditions in a hoarse, trembling whisper. She sank into a deep despair at the prospect of learning motherhood within the walls of a prison.  There was no family who could raise her child in her stead, and besides; her voice grew firmer and her eyes fiercer, this was her child. She would be his mother.

The small blade of light that pierced her web of misery was the hope that maybe; possibly, she would be released before her baby was due.

I felt pathetically useless as I left her there, in a flood of tears that I could neither wipe nor stem. I could do nothing but hope and pray for justice.

 The rest of that week, the prison came with me. I could not shake off the heaviness; the desperation that seemed equally prevalent in the life that existed outside the prison walls. Worst of all, the misery seemed needless!

I was shocked to hear that Lomé has the only deep-water port in West Africa; bringing in over (US) $1billion every day.  The glass- fronted, opulent Ministry of Finance seemed like a cruel joke opposite the decaying ruins of the Ministry of Healthcare.

These two factors betrayed the truth that the Togolese government can afford to invest in healthcare and education and basic infrastructure, but instead chooses to leave the population impoverished, in the hope that if they are consumed by the unending task of scraping together today’s meal, then they will have neither the willpower nor energy to raise objections.

Taking myself off the drug of innumerable torture testimonies, I began to climb back out of the darkness. There must be a way to bring change. Togo has seen some improvements over the centuries, even if Time does seem to have forgotten this small nation.

 The simple facts that everyday city-dwellers own smartphones and that Cybercafés are everywhere, show small signs of development. An ever-increasing number of Africans can now connect globally and access a world of information.

Change will eventually happen in Togo, but it requires an army of people who are prepared to dedicate their lives to facilitate it. It could take thirty, forty years for one governmental apology: breaking the choking web of corruption may take several lifetimes.

 However, even the smallest progress will have transformational results. Like the first trickle of water escaping from a barricade; the cracks of a scorched and abandoned wasteland will be saturated, and seeds will spring up; resulting in an uncontrollable flurry of life. Once the roots of change have broken through the barren bedrock, regression will be impossible.

This week, a glimpse of this brave new world was offered to me. Visiting the prison again, in the vain hope of interviewing another prisoner, I was embraced in the street by a stranger. Upon clearing the fog of French, I realised that this was one of mothers; she had just been released from prison. The slobbering baby with the lollipop now slept serenely on her back.

Her smile engulfed her entire face as she described reuniting with her husband and four other children after such a long time. Her new-born baby would be oblivious to his incarceration: the entire ordeal will never be fully formed in his memory. Incarceration would be nothing more than the wisps of a bad dream.

 I left the prison with lightness to my step. Despite the mountain of problems and daily struggles that exist everywhere, here was a living, breathing testimony of one happy ending.

Things to pray for:

Thank God that despite being told it was impossible, I can get a visa to Ghana

That God will bless the work that I am doing

That I will be able to invest in the relationships that I am forming.

That I will get high quality rest at the end of each week

Thanks guys! :)