3-9-09

I just spent the weekend in the Buduburum Refugee Community. They prefer “community” to “camp.” It gives them a sense of permanence and belonging in a world that has been torn apart. Many have been there for years, some for nearly twenty I don’t know what I was expecting. I don’t think I truly had any concrete notions, more like a vague idea of something rather primitive, with a few concrete structures in place and a handful of aid workers dispensing food or doing something, considering the pullout of the UN is so imminent. I don’t even really know where to begin.
I met Charlie in the market while I was at lunch with my roommate. They are both in the same University of California abroad program and they have several classes together. I forget how we got on the topic, but it came up that he teaches in the Buduburum community school on Mondays. He was planning on doing some research regarding attitudes towards repatriation. I was, of course, beyond thrilled. We talked animatedly for nearly an hour about Buduburum, his research, my work in the U.S., the situation in Liberia, etc. Charlie said that Gobi, a Liberian refugee living in the community and working at the school, had invited him to stay with him and his girlfriend on the weekends when Charlie wanted to do research. Charlie invited me to help with his interviews and to stay at the camp as well.
It took us two hours to reach Buduburum via two tro tros. There was nothing delineating Buduburum from the surrounding towns except a sign less than a mile before we reached our stop that read “Buduburum Refugee Camp.” Other than that, it simply melted into the other towns around it, just like every other town and village we had passed on our way there. Aside from two small UN offices near the front, it looked like every other town I had visited in Ghana so far. The dirt streets wound through the town, often turning into gullies due to erosion. Stands selling food, pure water, phone units, shoes, and clothes were in front of nearly every building. One of the slight differences was the prevalence of churches, women’s and community organizations, and training centers. In addition, not every store and stand was named after a Bible passage.
Charlie took me on a short tour of the camp as we made our way to Gobi’s house. There was a central square where children ran around and adults sat in front of bars. All of the houses were one floor concrete buildings with metal roofs. They were painted every shade of the rainbow. Most of the front steps and porches were well swept. A lot of people greeted us as we walked past. Gobi’s house had a well tended little jungle surrounding his gravel front yard, providing privacy and a sense of being in a peaceful garden. When we arrived Gobi and his girlfriend Rose were cleaning the house and asked us to come in and sit while they finished. Their baby Doo was next door with his auntie.
The first room was a kitchen and sitting room. To the left was Gobi and Rose’s bedroom and the bathroom. To the right was a small room they used for guests. Gobi built the house himself several years ago. He is very proud of having mixed the mortar for every brick with his own hands. He had to start over again three times during construction because the driving rains and the subsequent floods that surge down the streets of the camp during the rainy season kept washing everything away.
Gobi has either started or been involved in most of the projects and organizations in the community since it was first established as a refugee camp. He took us on a short walk around several of the zones in the community. He knows nearly all the children and most of the people we passed semed to know him. We stopped at his cousin’s bar and sat a while. He pointed out a number of prostitutes wandering around. He said that most of them had been raped during the war in Liberia or while fleeing and had lost their sense of self worth. With most of their family dead or unable to be found a lot of the girls had turned to prostitution to be able to feed themselves. He is trying to start a program he calls “Second Chance” for the prostitutes in the camp. He wants to help the women get an education and empower themselves again. He has a large house in Liberia that used to be the home of the Egyptian ambassador to Liberia. When he returns to Liberia on a more permanent basis he wants to use that as the basis for a “Second Chance” program in Liberia.
We returned briefly before Charlie and Gobi went out again to go buy food at the market for dinner. Gobi wanted me to stay at the house with Rose and Doo. Rose is much shyer than Gobi. She is also a lot younger. Gobi is in his mid-forties and Rose is in her mid-twenties. We talked a little about how she and Gobi met and about Doo. I took a bucket shower in their bathroom. I wish I had done it while it was still light outside. The only light in the house is a single lightbulb in the kitchen. Even though I left the curtain tucked to the side, it was still very dark in the little bathroom.
We were all very tired and went to bed early. It was a very hot night, and no air circulated through the little room Charlie and I slept in. I forced myself to fall asleep, knowing that if I was asleep, I wouldn’t feel like I was suffocating on the hot heavy air. I was only asleep for two hours before I woke up again. A little lizard had jumped on my leg and jerked me awake. My nap, the heat , and Doo’s restlessness in the next room made it nearly impossible to fall asleep again. I tossed and turned the rest of the night, sweaty and restless.
Charlie and I woke up around seven in the morning. It was only slightly cooler than it had been the night before. Gobi was still asleep, so we went out for a walk. Charlie latched on to the first person that said hello and followed him through the camp, talking and asking questions. He is one of those people who can talk to nearly anyone about anything and make it seem completely natural. We stopped in the market for some fruit and bread to eat for breakfast as we walked. I listened a lot as Charlie talked, too busy absorbing everything to ask questions of my own.
When we returned to Gobi’s house he was just waking up and straightening the house. We waited outside where it was cooler. The presence of white people so far back in the community attracted children and a few neighbors. Again, Charlie talked with people as we played clapping games with the children. Somehow, the stories just began to spill out of the women. Stories of rape; decisions to leave infants behind to save their older children; watching soldiers kill their husbands, brothers, uncles, and children; fear, helplessness, despair, and frustration. When they began talking Charlie and I stopped playing games and came and sat with them. We all cried silent tears that ran down our faces and disappeared amid the sweat. I was amazed at how even their voices were. There were only a few points at which they had to take a couple breaths to keep their voices from cracking. Gobi came out and joined his stories with theirs. He told us of a group of soldiers at a checkpoint who held them all at gunpoint and pointed to a beautiful young woman leaving the country with her husband and children. They made her come forward and forced her husband and children to watch as they raped her. Gobi had to hold her husband back, knowing that they would kill him if he interfered and then the children would be left without a father. When they were done raping her they left her there and motioned for everyone to move on. She got up and ran towards a guard, impaling herself on his bayonet. The guards laughed and told the husband to get rid of the body.
Gobi  told us about his and Rose’s first child Rain. Rain had been born in Buduburum. When she was two, Gobi’s sister decided to return to Liberia. She asked Gobi if she could take Rain with her. Gobi labored over it for six months. Rose was pregnant and his income was not constant. He finally made the decision to send Rain with his sister. Tears streamed down his face as he showed us pictures of his daughter. His sister was able to take good care of her in Liberia with the income from several properties she rented out. Gobi knows it will be a long time until he sees his daughter again. He has just received a scholarship from the Japanese government to get his Masters in Economic Planning from the University of Ghana.
No one knows what will happen when the UN revokes all support of the camp at the end of March. The UN still recognizes them as refugees. However, without food rations or money to support some of the basic community needs like schools and medical care, no is sure whether they will be able to afford to stay. Ghana will not deport them, but they will also not provide much assistance. Everyone is stuck between a rock and a hard place. They can return to Liberia, though few have anything to return to, and face the retraumatization of going back to the place where so much of their lives were destroyed; or they can remain in Ghana where there is friction between them and the Ghanaian government and where they have a community, but not much way of supporting that community. What kind of choice is that? It seems that it has been one unfeasible choice after another – like deciding to kill your own infant because you cannot flee with him and you cannot leave him behind to starve to death or be brutally murdered by the rebels.
It was a rough weekend. I came back and fell asleep at 8:30 on Sunday night. I knew this was going to be hard. I am not good at maintaining a professional social work distance from the people I work with. I know that, which is why I prefer macro social work. I intend to go back either next weekend or the weekend after that to help Charlie. I think I will only go for the day next time. As amazing as it was to stay overnight and be a part of Gobi’s life, it was too intense. I think I will be able to handle the emotions of this experience better if I am able to come back to the dorm/hostel at night to ground myself.