I still believe in Miracles

These Dry Bones (Progressives) Will Rise Again

Ask me about the thing that drives everything that I do or say and I will be frank with you that it is my faith in God through Jesus Christ. Having being through many ups and downs and survived including the barbaric Liberian civil war, it is the resolve that the same Jesus who worked wonders for me yesterday can do the same again and again. Maybe taking Him for granted sometimes, I bask in the realization that the same God who does not falter or forget can sail me through even tougher challenges. This has been my strength, my coping strategy, my survival technique and defense mechanism often exhaled in a song I learned in Sunday school years back:

This same Jesus who was in Galilee

This same Jesus who walked upon the sea

This same Jesus by faith had made me whole

This same Jesus will still see me through

This was the song on my lips when rebels took me from a town in the Firestone area and forced me to carry their loads on the frontline near the highway of the Robertsfield International Airport where they were “cutting the supply lines of the enemies.” To and from the rebel destination, I sang the song again and again and was persuaded that I was not going to perish in yet another difficult situation. I was assured that I was covered and therefore the devil and all his forces could not do me harm. The part that really wowed my own imagination was when a villager who lived near the Du River volunteered to put me across the river in a canoe for free. Canoeing across was the only means of transport and only rebels had the luxury of being transported for free. I contemplated on faking to be a rebel to scare the villagers for a free ride but my body language could tell that I was scary civilian returning from hell. Anyway Jesus saw me through and the villager perhaps thinking I was a rebel returning from the war front offered to transport me across at no charge.

It was those same lines on my lips when once or twice I found myself surrounded by armed robbers commonly known as bandits in Abidjan, La Cote d’Ivoire and stopped by vigilante groups in Ogun State, Nigeria. In all those instances, miracles happened and my life was spared. At times when there was nothing to eat (not kidding-absolutely nothing to munch on,) only miracles came to my rescue. It was this same Jesus.

Once upon a time, a group of Liberian intellectuals and political activists known as the progressives emerged. These young and energetic men and women became the voice of a down trodden population of mainly indigenous Liberians whom the so-called pioneers who became the ruling class have under classed and dispossessed of their own rights and privileges. Their efforts were ongoing and came to the peak in the late 1970’s. Building on what their forerunners like David D. Coleman, Didhwo Twe, Nete Sieh Brownell, Tuan Wreh… have started, activists like Togba Nah Tipoteh, Gabriel Baccus Matthews, H. Boima Fahnbulleh, Jr. and others have come to popularize the Progressive movement. Then a coup came which put an exclamation point to their fight, toppling a so-say-one, so-say-all government headed by Mr. Tolbert who was also a number two man in the Tubman oligarchy. Their efforts unmasked a century long tyranny and oppression by the minority ruling class. The support that greeted the bloody coup was overwhelming and the progressives having set the stage were the decorated heroes along with those non-commission soldiers who actually overthrew the government of Mr. Tolbert. When the one family domination came crumbling down, the nation sang in unison "our eyes are open."

But as anyone who expect, the honeymoon between the progressives and the coup leaders soon ended. One by one, they left or were forced out of the military government that we have all come to embrace as the people’s Redemption Council Government. They soon jumped back into familiar waters opposing the government with all their might and whim. Sooner or later, they have succeeded in exposing the ills of the Samuel Doe government even when it changed from military to be somehow democratic. The fact that Mr. Doe, the military leader turned politician stood in the elections and won (supposedly) made it even more suspicious and marred the first multiparty elections after 133 years of abuse as flawed and not good enough to work with. Little by little the tension built but the worst was yet to come.

As the enemy of my enemy is my friend, others whose intentions might have been under estimated if not devious joined forces with the progressives to work out a plan in “returning the country to democratic rule” that the progressives have long sought. Such plan took on many forms from the party headquarters and streets to rebel training camps. Coups – both real and schemed, invasions and murders came and went leaving behind the dead, wounded and exiled.

Then hell finally became to live with us on earth when over a decade long uncivil war which took the lives of an approximate quarter million of our own people including the sitting president began. The war was so brutal that people who once danced for the 1980 end of autocracy began to prefer the pre-Doe one party and one group dominance. As one pastor said, “because of the suffering, they preferred Egypt to the promises of the Promise Land.” The war did not only turn hearts against the activism of the progressives, like sheep without a shepherd, the progressives themselves all went scattered with a few actually taking up guns to kill, rape, and plunder as well. It was a messy situation that carrying guns or commentating atrocities like a soccer match became like fashion. Some of the progressives and their trainees were divided up among the war lords either as propagandists or foot soldiers on one side or the other. Few held to their guts to remain untainted but by then their names went stink in the noses of many who were tricked into believing that the progressives were responsible for all our troubles. the devil is truly the grand parent of all lies and deceit.

By the time the war ended, the morale of the progressives has waned if not dead. Their number dwindled as the political waves drove them from this side to that side trying to reclaim their identity. To make matter worse, the demography has changed but the progressives seemed not to realize that and saw no need for self re-introduction. The man Charles Taylor who emerged as the strongest warlord won a landslide victory in the rush-rush election that followed. Last minutes effort by the progressives to group themselves into an alliance against the largest rebel group proved useless as such alliance could not even hold in the face of the Taylor’s popularity and intimidation. The youths most of whom had been drugged to fight for Mr. Taylor and his NPFL knew no one except their lord Mr. Taylor whom they saw as their father and therefore referred to as “pahpay.” That was the beginning of more disintegration of the progressives.

The reign of Mr. Charles Terror Taylor pushed the country more and more towards the-strong-shall-survive society. Ruthlessness had paid off and Mr. Taylor was not letting go. He muzzled everyone and even bullied his neighbors. He pinned the remnant progressives to the ground and continued his war time campaign against them forcing still some of them into compliance. Bit by bit their number thinned.

The fragmentations continued through the 2005 elections resulting into multiple breakaways or carpet crossing to other parties and the formation of other neo-progressive movements. Neither the parties of their progressives nor their breakaway groups were significant factors in both 1987 and 2005 elections. They all lost miserably. With the first democratically elected female president well positioned to revive and recoup a war battered country, the Progressives seem to be without a message, vision and the strength to make any meaningful impact.

To make matter more complicated, the birth of Mr. George Weah on the political scene is driving them to the edge. Will Weah embrace the progressive and be infected with the same progressive diagnosis? Conversely, will the progressives join the Weah yo-yo train as a possible fourth quarter strategy? Or will these progressives whom have grown to oppose only the ruling class now begin fighting at two fronts? Will anyone listen to them?

Like the valley of dry bones that Ezekiel saw, these remnants of progressives are conspicuously scattered throughout the Liberian political landscape with no skin on them or juice left in them. As all hopes of a progressive comeback dissipate, the song "This same Jesus" which danced on my lips and ferried me across many hopeless and dangerous situations has returned.

This same Jesus who was in Galilee

This same Jesus who walked upon the sea

This same Jesus by faith had made me whole

This same Jesus will still see me through

I still believe in miracles even in this precarious situation when all hope is lost. With miracles, even this Progressive movement of Liberia which for now appears like scattered and forgotten dry bones will live again. And that is why I am not afraid to declare,

These same progressives battered and tossed about

These same progressives dry, scattered and almost forgotten

These same progressives once showed us the way

I know these same progressives will still thrive again

Liberian story retold by a film maker

The Road to Fendell: August 2, 1990

We have had devotion that night before going to bed. Daily devotions were not out of the ordinary for our household especially since the war has raged on leaving no doubt that the capital Monrovia was going to fall to rebels; it was just the matter of time. At first we were excited for a change but soon found out that this change through a rebel war was going to be bitter, costly and things were not going to go the way many of us have expected or wished. Three or more times, we had ventured into the Paynesville suburb which was now under the rebel control of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL) in search of food. From our first encounter with the rebels, it was evident that their activities were nothing closed to what their leader, spokesman, and other loyalists have preached on radio. They were killing innocent people, looting everything, acted under the influence of drugs and had no leadership or direction whatsoever. They did not disguise their intention of killing all Krahns and Mandingos, current and former civil servants, any kind of military personnel, and just any one whom they perceived as unfamiliar and suspicious. As we met them, they screened us for our ethnic affiliation, any security or military training, level of education, relationship with any former or present government official, army personnel, or for any of those things which they were programmed to get rid of.

From experiencing their activities first hand and based on what others told us, we knew of their many atrocities but chose to make our way deep into their controlled areas anyway for fear of being caught in crossfire as they battle for president Doe’s fortified Executive Mansion or dying from starvation. The story that was propelling the movement was that areas far removed from the frontlines were safe and conditions there were normal. Their propaganda machine worked like crazy as many people chose such alternative for food and safety. Besides, they were urging all to flee into their areas. It was a journey of no return as no one ever came back to relay the horrors of crossing rebel checkpoints and the complete anarchy in the areas they held.

Evening and morning devotions became a norm in almost every household. With our hearts united, we sang and danced to the glory of God, defying the tranquility that was imposed by the curfew hours.

My Soul is on Fire
My bones’re set on fire
In my heart, there is a burning desire
I’m going to kick that devil around
I’m going to bring his kingdom down
My soul, my soul is on fire.

We literally kicked the air to demonstrate a brutal and victorious treatment of our adversary-the devil whom we blamed for the chaotic trend events in our country had turned.

With the devil being kicked around and his kingdom wrestled down to the ground, we set foot into what we came to experience as living hell on the morning of August 2, 1990. NPFL rebels were everywhere from the Monrovia Suburbs of Barnersville all the way to where only our minds could imagine. But as we will soon come to find out at the first rebel checkpoint, this devil was not going to be kicked around although his kingdom was right there in our midst on this back road leading to the University of Liberia Fendell Campus. Apparently, it was far better to die in your own home or neighborhood, than walking into the NPFL death chambers. But this was the journey of no return so we moved on with our hearts in our mouths and a 23rd Psalm customized for our purpose in our heads: As I walk through the valleys of the rebels, I am shaken to death but I know the Lord is with me.

There were several reasons why we should not be heading this way deep into rebel controlled areas. We have watched them shoot at point blank range innocent people in Barnersville and at Stephen Tolbert Estate who they believed were members of President Doe’s Krahn ethnic group, Mandingo or former government officials. What was then driving us knowing that we could be next to fall at their bullets for a list of endless crimes including “looking like you have been enjoying?” First, there were not many options: Our food has dried out completely, Monrovia was going to be a bloody battle ground and we had to leave. Going to Sierra Leone was not an option as it required big money maybe the price for two bags of parboiled rice for one person to travel on a mini bus or Peugeot to the Sierra Leonean border. We were twenty one persons including children and so this put a trip to Sierra Leone off the table. Staying put in Monrovia to die from hunger or being caught in the cross fire of the most intensive battle that was eminent was one option. The next option which we took only because we had resolved, under the leading of the Holy Spirit was to enter the belly of the rebel World. The assumption was that the farther we went into rebels controlled territory, the better conditions were as those areas were not affected by the carnage we were experiencing in the Monrovia area.

Barnersville was not a place to be. There was the breakaway NPFL faction headed by Prince Johnson on one side, the NPFL on the other side, and the national army which by this time we have named Doe’s army picking on everyone to still remain relevant. So, on August 2, 1990 we took the ultimate gamble with our lives and joined several others heading to rebel land. In our minds, there was a fifty-fifty chance that we would make it to safety. We said our final prayers and were convinced more than ever before that God was going with us and that we were going to pass through waters and flames unharmed. To close the brief devotion that morning, we sang about God's presence with us,

He is before me
And behind me
All around me, Alle-lu-ia

With God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit wrapped all round us, we turned our backs to our home into NPFL’s Liberia. The youngest person making the travel was my nephew Takah whom had just turned six years old. The oldest, my dad was about sixty something or seventy. Papah had come to spend the Christmas with us and get medical attention when rebels closed the highway leading to back to his home in Southeastern Liberia. Ever since we were kids, there had been ground breaking ceremonies and talks to construct this so-called Ganta-Harper Highway but to no avail so it was an easy thing for rebels to block such alley. Just stop the flow of traffic for a week or two and the bushes would gladly take over and do the rest. Now we were on the road again but this time it was on foot and precious lives were on the line.

Saye, a boy whom was a friend of my nephews in Yekepa was also making the trip with us. He lived in the Jallah Town area and attended the University of Liberia prior to the rebel war. When things got tense in Monrovia and reprisals were been taken against members of the Gio and Mano tribes, he sought refuge with us in Barnersville. He had known my sister in Yekepa for ever so long and a good friend of her sons. We had shielded him from the National army hunting young men from Nimba County and this was his time to return the favor and walk us through rebel lines.

The night before, we have devised a special language to use in rebel territory. First we had to speak our native tongue at a 100% level so that no one understood what we were saying. This was a very hard thing to do as normally we spoke a mix and match version especially with nouns but this was a life and death situation so we had to comply or be quiet. Our uncle also making the trip with us with us kept us in check. Any time we found ourselves conversing in English, he would caution “let’s go to Doodwicken,” meaning we should converse as if we were in our hometown. The names of the main actors were translated. Charles Taylor was translated literally as the one who sews; Prince Johnson was called “the king’s son.” Rebels did not like to be called as such so we had to disguise that too. The name rebel was translated as “those who operate in the jungles” or “heartmen operating from the bush,” and so on.

We hardly left Barnersville when we came upon the first rebel check point. Already, they might have gotten their first catch for the day. A man about 30 or 40 years old was stripped to his under pants and tied up like a goat being readied for slaughter. Hands tied behind his back with one elbow touching the other, he wailed in pains asking whoever he could recognize in the queue to plea for him. He stood in a pool formed by his blood and begged to be spared. His cries and plea of innocence were like music in the ears of the rebels. They walked along the long winded queue we have formed believing that they had some magical power that enabled them to identify Krahns, Mandingos, former government soldiers, government employees… to be killed. As they sniffed us for a prey, they took away our personal belongings and even things we had on. One of them just about my size unbuckled my belt and pulled it off my waist as if I was only a custodian of his property. You could tell that he had not had a bath for days if not weeks. He smelled like a fish that has been dead for days and left unnoticed along the roadside. Saye, the Mano boy who was leading us lifted up his eyes to me with a smile to assure me that it was only a belt and I had no cause to fear for my life. This was just a prelude to the way our rights would dissipate for the years ahead in the hands of rebels who have been programmed to kill, rob, and destroy.

From there onwards, each checkpoint presented new difficulties, risks, humiliation, and more sufferings. And there were so many of them. Saye was up to the task. Speaking his vernacular to his fellow tribesmen and women and pleading on our behalf. They had all the reasons in the World to kill us but Saye was unrelenting. At some checkpoints, he wept profusely begging that our lives be spare. My uncle who was traveling along with us was another major target of those flesh eating rebels. He had been working in the Liberian government since he graduated from high school some thirty years back. They were suspecting him as a former military officer for which they ruled that he had to die. That meant all of us needed to go along as killing one member of a family was not enough for rebels. Other family members that were left would possibly take revenge so killing Uncle Cheah meant killing all of us. Besides, harboring or not pointing out someone whom the rebel movement thinks had to be killed was as grievous as being a member of the rebel condemned tribes or groups.

Checkpoint after check point, the situation grew worse. Somewhere we were judged as Krahns, elsewhere as new army recruits on AWOL, or family members of those who had been “enjoying.” All these meant death and he rebels were eager to execute. When they said their gun has not eaten, they wanted to kill civilians so they made up every lie imaginable to feed their weapons.

It took us all day to see the oil palm plantation that borders the University of Liberia Fendell Campus where we first heard food distribution was going on and that once we got there, all our troubles were over. We could stay there as long as we wanted to allow the NPFL time to kill the president and finish the war. As soon as their leader took power, normalcy would return and we would return home walking on clouds. Well, if a rebel told you that the sun was up and the weather was fine, you needed an umbrella to protect yourself from the rain. Lie is a rebel’s middle name. Even their leaders use lies and deceit to keep them fighting and their support coming.

By the time we got to the Fendell Campus, we were exhausted, hungry and above all, we hated the rebels with all our senses. Those rebels and the people behind the killing spree we have come to know as the National Patriotic Front of Liberia were all bunches of heartless criminals driven by revenge and a thirst for power and wealth. But this was just the road to Fendell, day one in Liberian uncivil war 101.