International Volunteers

Much of what dominates my life here is the dynamic between the cast of international volunteers. We live together, relax together and work collaboratively on projects, so these dynamics have almost as great an impact on your life as does living and working in the camp. My American roommate, Libby, is doing her dissertation on conflict resolution and refugee camp violence and spends much of her time chasing down interviews. Because of this she has insights into camp that other volunteers may miss and I reap the benefits of her insider information having her as roommate. We have similar interests and backgrounds and some really fascinating discussions. In our house, there is also a young Canadian couple who are kind but quite and in Africa partly due to her recreational interest in photography. Birgit (Australian), here the longest, is one of the most energetic people I’ve met – constantly running off to meetings and organizing new projects and discussing ways to improve things. Alec is from the U.S. and his 3 years teaching in the Bronx at home have probably prepared him best for teaching kids. He shares a room with Al (Kiwi), a “low-talker” who works in sanitation and is always up for a beer at the end of the day. There is a brother/sister pair from Ireland, who arrived at the airport the same time as my and amuse the rest of us with their light-hearted tiffs. Leah, a Canadian, just finished 3 years teaching in Korea, and Lian (our only non-native English speaker) is our youngest at 18 but surprisingly mature for her years. It's a real life "Realworld" of sorts.


Everyone appears drawn to this experience for different reasons, but we all share the same challenges living here and this bonds us together. It’s not always easy sharing such close quarters and suffering through the heat together. But we are forced to be tolerant of one another’s quirks and so far it has gone smoothly and even been enjoyable getting to know everyone. Actually, this togetherness is something I think we miss out in the way we organize our lives back home, where I know my neighbors only by appearance and we can spare only a few minutes of pleasantries on our way to work. Anyway, it's something that is making my experiences here even richer.

Lots of love to all,

Kim

Living conditions

Some of you have wanted me to describe more of what kind of conditions I find myself living in. The international volunteers (there are also Liberian refugee volunteers) are housed in “guest houses” 2 to a room, with a common room and kitchen. There is one toilet that uses a flush bucket system (you use the toilet as normal, but must pour a bucket of water down it to flush out the contents) and a bucket shower, which is actually not too bad when it’s hot out. It’s actually amazing how little water you really need to get clean when you do it this way and makes me think about how much water we waste at home. To my surprise, the guesthouse has intermittent electricity, but we mainly resort to candles and flashlights. Despite our efforts to keep things clean, we are joined by mice and African insects of varying colors and shapes, many of which would require a small firearm to kill, so we end up co-existing.

Sleeping. The bed I sleep has a mattress thinner than a good down comforter which lies over not really a bed but a suspension bridge of randomly positioned wooden slats that leave wide spaces for your flesh to fall through. The trick is to position yourself so that the planks hit you in the least uncomfortable way possible. It can also be quite hot at night. But the biggest challenge to sleeping is the camp loudspeakers which are positioned just outside my window. Music and announcements (some of which I’ll have to dedicate another entry to) start at 5 AM. Now, I am light sleeper to begin with but I am not exaggerating when I say that these speakers are so loud that my earplugs are rendered powerless and I have to shout to my roommate who is only 5 feet away. At times they play the most bizarre musical selections – like lullabies in the morning – on a loop. Seriously, the song finishes and then starts up right again. We all pull out our hair and plan ways to sabotage the speakers. I actually read somewhere that this is how they torture prisoners in Guantanomo Bay. They play the same song at a high decibel over and over until the prisoners crack. But I know it serves a purpose too. People here generally rise with the sun and many don’t have radios or a reliable way to get news. It also reinforces the differences in our ideas of private and communal space.

Neighbors. The “neighborhood” kids are constantly looking in our windows and doors and calling our names. We live in a kind of détente with these kids. The veteran volunteers have no qualms about yelling at them and shooing them away – which appears kind of cruel at first, but seems to have evolved out of necessity. We actually really like these kids and play with them, but they don’t give us a moment’s rest, so we have to reinforce boundaries.

Food. There is a local refugee who we employ as a cook. Breakfast is always eggs (boiled or fried) and porridge, and lunch is almost always rice with some kind of vegetable stew and chicken wings. We eat leftover lunch for dinner or try our luck at one of the stalls around camp. Considering the state of our bathrooms, I’m trying to stay away from anything that might make me sick, but I know that in 3 months it is likely inevitable.

As different as these conditions are from home, they are far better than those of most of the refugees, so I am loath to complain. Actually, the adjustment hasn’t been that difficult. My mosquito net provides at least psychological protection from nightly insect invasions, and I’m actually enjoying the bucket shower system. Plus, I’m sharing these quarters with some really wonderful people from all over the world, so there are also advantages.

Thanks for all of your emails – it makes me feel closer to home to get your messages

T's Story

While waiting nearly 2 hours at the airport for news of my lost bag, I had the opportunity to talk to one of the Liberians who works with CBW and was helping me locate my bags. While we waited, he filled the time by telling me the story of who he ended up at the camp.

T was working as a nurse in the emergency room at a hospital in Monrovia before the start of the war. One day a dying man was brought in by his hysterical brother who told T that he would hold him personally responsible if his brother were to die. Despite T's efforts, his patient died later that night and upon hearing this the brother attacked T. Fortunately, the hospital authorities intervened explaining that this death was not T's fault. The brother remained unconvinced but left. One year later Charles Taylor's rebels reached Monrovia and the hospital and T was met again by the brother - this time a leader in the rebel group - who recognized T and promptly told him that he would now definitely die. The rebels beat T mercilessly and threw him in the back of their truck as they left the city. Lying in the back of the truck, my new friend was sure he was going to die. But the truck stopped at a checkpoint of West African peace keeping soldiers who questioned the rebels as to what they were doing with T, who was now covered in his own blood. The rebels attempted to convince the officers that T was an enemy, but T was still wearing his hospital badge, and this made the soldiers suspicious. An argument ensued, but in the end the soldiers prevailed. T was thrown from the truck and told "god has saved you today, but you may not be so lucky tomorrow"

T left the next day and has never returned to Monrovia. He found his way to Ghana and this camp and later learned that his house was burned the day after he left. The rest of his family is still in Liberia, but he fears returning. With all this he considers himself lucky.

His story sounds so unbelievable. For those of us living in a safe world it is the stuff of movies. But I imagine that every adult in this camp has a story equally tragic and harrowing. In the end, their lives somehow go on, and that is what I see. I'm not particularly religious, but I think the churches here (there are an incredible number of them) aid tremendously in this healing. Every morning I wake to hear a preacher say through a loudspeaker, "we are thankful to god to be alive in this new day." Oftentimes, those who tell me their sad stories end with, "...but I know with god's help I will fulfill my dreams." It may at first seem simple-minded or naive, but I think this faith provides people with comfort and a sense of order where otherwise the world would seem unreasonably chaotic and cruel.

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note- I changed T's name and some details to protect his identity.

The Camp

There is so much to explain that I don't know quite where to start. My thoughts are going much quicker than I can possibly type. So, I'll just start with the basics...

Buduburum is home to around 40,000 Liberian refugees and has been in existence for 15 years. It's more of a settlement now than a refugee camp and has an economy of shops, small cafes, hair dressers and more cell phone services than seem necessary - all of which is generally fueled by remittances from relatives abroad. There is one UNHCR (United Nations High Commission on Refugees) clinic, but 44 churches, some of which run schools for the kids. Other than adequate access to health care and education, people appear to have their very basic needs met. When the camp was first established, there were outbreaks of cholera and typhoid and violence was not uncommon. Since then, a very rudimentary sanitation system has been devised and a voluntary police force and midnight curfew keep things relatively safe. Still, most do not have electricity and there are only 10 free wells from which to collect water (those who can pay for water service).

Because Liberians cannot work outside the camp and many cannot afford school, the camp is always bustling with people. There are a few main roads and an attempt to organize the camp by zones, but it is generally a labyrinthine sprawl and very easy to lose your bearings. Homes are concrete and corrugated tin build by the refugees, some of whom now even charge newcomers rent. The UNHCR provided some services in the early years, but pulled out during a period of intermittent Liberian peace only to come back in 2003. Their clinic remains one of the only clinics, but their wells are now useless and their attempt to institute a fee-for-use toilet is something of a joke. To be fair, there are more immediate and dire refugee crises that demand precious UNHCR services - but their presence in this camp outside of the occasional "donated by UNHCR" sign is virtually non-existent, from what I can see. Filling the gap, Liberians seem to have started quite a number of social service agencies (many church-affiliated) including a child-soldier support group and school for the deaf.

It's all quite impressive and sad at the same time. People seem hopeful and industrious, but there is an overwhelming waste of talent, and most I've talked to dream of better life outside the camp. Those who can keep improving their skills and getting more education, but there is little work to be had.

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Thanks to everyone who has supported my journey out here. The needs are overwhelming, and I only hope I can make some impact personally while I'm out here. But it seems that perhaps the most help I can be will be to relieve the burden on the Liberians who are working beside us as volunteers for the same cause.