This is a book review of a new academic oriented collection of essays about Kenya's democractic prospects.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy
Godwin R. Murunga & Shadrack W. Nasong’o, editors
Zed Books, NY, 2007
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, still hot from the printer, is a compilation of scholarly essays about contemporary Kenya. The individual pieces are honest and blunt. Authors make no effort to hide prejudices that are aimed at colonialism, the Kenyatta and Moi regimes. Judgments on the Kibaki era are hedged, but various contributors fear it too is becoming engulfed in the same vortex of oligarchic power that has plagued Kenya for generations.
The editors state at the outset that contributors to the book are young academics not tainted by sell-out to the system. Further, the editors claim, young academics never benefited from mentoring that ought to have been their due from the previous generation (who did sell out). This is only the first of many themes of opportunities lost that run through the tome.
Readers be warned that Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy is an academic book replete with footnotes and citations of other learned works. Language too is quite erudite – often it seems deliberately so – sentences occasionally need several readings in order to make sense. Yet, there is a great deal of extremely good sense in this book.
The overall thrust of the book is to discuss in the Kenyan context the various elements that make up a democratic society. The basic charge against Kenya is that colonialism extended into Kenyattaism and Moism and even Kibakism without substantial change in the format of how government works, i.e. by coercion and intimidation. Although the leadership changed, authoritarian rule only became worse as Kenyatta and Moi expanded the powers of the presidency and then used those powers to assure their predominance. Yet against this backdrop, there was throughout an effort by many to push for democracy, popular participation and accountability. Topics covered in the book include the evolution of civil society organizations, the growth of religious movements and their political roles, the problems encountered by opposition political parties, the growth of youth movements and abuses of the same during multiparty elections, the stymied participation of women, missed opportunities by intellectuals, abuses perpetrated by the police, the impact of structural adjustment policies and the confusing roles of donors.
I judged the chapter on political parties to be among the most interesting, not only for its accurate history of the convoluted opposition to the Kenyatta and Moi regimes, but more on account of the analysis of why opposition did not function well and continues to operate poorly. The explanation that African polities do not accommodate a loyal opposition, i.e. you are either with me or an enemy, rings true in the Kenyan context, but is buttressed by the fact that no parties, expect perhaps KANU for a time, really have had any existence outside an electoral period. Beyond temporary coalitions designed solely to oust Moi, Kenya has no parties of issues –– only parties of “big men” who organize, pay for and selfishly direct “their” parties. This explains why Kenya has 55 registered parties, most of which are simply vehicles for personal ambitions. The author of this chapter argued that until political parties themselves become internally democratic they cannot become “democratic institutions” and realistically foment democracy.
The chapter on women explained convincingly how women were sidelined from national life during the last half century. The exclusion they experienced during colonial times arose mostly from the nature of their subsistence labor which kept them out of the “modern” sector and away from education. Such marginalization was augmented after independence when a perverted form of “traditional” patriarchy pushed them further into the corners of national life. Today Kenyan women account for only 6 percent of public figures; nearly last place in Africa. One solution might be an electoral system of proportional representation for Parliament. Countries with these systems, such as Rwanda (48 %), tend to have much higher proportions of women in public roles.
The discussion of intellectuals was a telling indictment by the author of his peers. He alleged that Kenyan intellectuals have not stood up to their responsibility to foster democracy. Several reasons for this lacuna are put forward: fear of reprisals,love of the good life, co-optation by the powers-that-be, failure of the older generation to give way to the new or simply shirking of duty. The introspection shown by this chapter demonstrates the guilt felt by many intellectuals for the failure of Kenya, both historically and currently, to achieve its democratic potential.
The chapter on the police provided details on how the police and security services evolved under Kenyatta and Moi to become the essential bulwark of presidential power. Instances of assassination, torture, and other egregious abuses of authority are cited as well as the erosion of the rule of law and the compromise of the judiciary. It is a troubling read, but necessary to understand the fear and intimidation that permeated political society and kept the opposition in check. The author hopes that under Kibaki abuses are being corrected, but gives little evidence that the system has undergone fundamental reform.
Finally, the book concludes with two chapters that link Kenya’s political troubles and tensions of the last half century to its economic woes. There were certainly causal links as bad decisions (both political and economic) and bad luck (mostly economic) led to a spiral of decline. The poor internal Kenyan economic dynamic was further destabilized by changing and contradictory policies imposed by the World Bank, IMF and donor nations. Although there is an effort to level blame for economic failures, there is more of an explanation of what happened and an appeal for consistency in the future.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, is full of current information and realistic history. For those ready for a graduate-school level tome, it is a useful guide to crucial Kenyan issues.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Central African Republic - "Passing Through"
Following is a story I wrote based on my experience as Vice Consul in Bangui. Although elements of the piece are true, overall it is fiction.
Passing Through
It had been a good month for vendors, but poor for commerce. The string of salesmen stopping by home or office in the shady African backwater capital had offered poached ivory - usually small tusks indicating taken from females – smelly leopard skins, or carefully produced leather pouches containing a half dozen little brown stones – diamonds they averred. A few businessmen laid out artistic wares, mostly masks from neighboring Zaire. I was intrigued by a few of those, but had only added one to my collection. As for the ivory and leopard skins I explained that international commerce in either was illegal so I could not and would not buy. The seller, of course, saw this riposte as a bargaining ploy and tried to haggle on. I usually listened to the diamond merchants’ stories about how these were from a clandestine dig, had been brought home by a brother, were the family treasure but now needed to be sold for medicine – ergo, they could be had cheaply. I had no ability to tell if the little rocks were uncut diamonds, pieces of glass or whatever, but I did suggest that the purveyor take them to the American-owned, diamond purchasing office downtown for analysis and possible purchase. Once I asked Fred, the U.S. rep for the office, if any walk-ins really had good stuff. He said that often they did have small industrial grade stones, which, he said, reflected nation-wide artisan production. Only once, he told me, had he really bought a very nice gem stone from a street vendor. He cautioned me not to buy raw diamonds from anyone. He added that the broken glass sellers never stopped by his place for an estimate.
Lately, there was a new wrinkle to sales pitches. Emile, the receptionist buzzed me to advise that a “commercant” wanted to see me. This gent was well dressed and spoke good French. He said he had come upon a “strategic material” that he knew the U.S. needed to corral. After prodding, he confided that it was the uranium used in nuclear bombs. It had come from mines in Zaire. Although he said he could not reveal how he had come to possess it, he affirmed it was radioactive. I asked him to describe what he was talking about: was it liquid or solid, how was it packed? How did he know it was radioactive?
In reply he said it was solid. That answer immediately piqued my interest. This was not just another “red lead” approach. Mercury that had been used in various sorts of x-ray machines circulated in little vials throughout Central Africa. If some of this stuff was slightly radioactive, that was nothing compared to its danger as mercury – especially when used by some “guérisseur” as part of a local cure. Given America’s nuclear might, red lead was flogged from time to time by the street vendors that came to see me.
I remembered a cable from Kinshasa several months back that detailed the disappearance some years ago of a very small quantity of material from the nuclear facility at the university there. Apparently the stolen stuff had no possible weapons implications, but it was real, processed, radioactive and possibly dangerous if kept near people. At the time I had visions of a whole family being poisoned from sleeping near a little brown suitcase with the missing uranium in it.
I asked for a moment, dug out the cable – I did do a little proper filing now and then – and warned my interlocutor of what he might have. He was crestfallen when I said the U.S. government did not want to purchase his item. He blustered that he would go to the French, Soviets or Chinese. I said fine, his stuff really had no value except at the research center from which it had been stolen. He left in a huff.
I recounted this encounter to Joe, the Peace Corps director, over our luncheon beer on the terrace of the New Palace Hotel. Joe, in turn, passed on word from a PCV in Mbaiki, a town at the edge of the great Congo basin forest, some seventy miles south of town. Rob reported that he had first heard about then finally met a bedraggled “blanc” in the market. The man in question said his name was Thomas (pronounced Tow-ma in the French fashion) and that he was an American. Rob invited him home for a meal and heard a bit of his story. Essentially Thomas had been living with a pygmy band for over a year roaming through the vast forest.
Except for a missionary zealot who had vanished while testing the upper rapids of the Oubangui River some ten years earlier – and was presumably eaten by crocodiles - I had no current lookouts for missing Americans. Thomas intrigued us. Was his story truthful and if so, why? We mulled it over, but having run into a number of wayward individuals over the years, reckoned that he probably had his motives. I had no mandate to go look for this guy, but asked Joe to tell Rob to tell Thomas that if he needed any assistance to come see me.
Over the next couple of days, I thought more about Thomas. I grew curiouser and curiouser. Why would some one purposely seek out a stone age existence? Not just for a week or two as an adventure, but for a year or more. I decided to touch base with the local pygmy watchers. Ian, a Quebecois, was part of a university medical team studying pygmies. I had visited their field clinic in the forest. They measured, took blood, obtained family histories, etc. all part of a greater quest to find Eve, the mother of us all. Ian confirmed that his team had picked up rumors from pygmy contacts to the effect that a white shadow was lurking deep in the forest. He thought that was a relatively new phenomenon, but added that the pygmies were full of apocryphal stories. It was impossible to separate fiction from fact. My other pygmy expert was a missionary whose group was translating the Bible into African tongues, including Yaka, the language of the Bayaka, the pygmies of the region. Jim said they started with a few Bible stories like Joseph’s coat of many colors and David and Goliath, both of which had worked well elsewhere in country. He candidly confessed, however, that neither story registered with the pygmies. They did not wear clothes, so coveting a coat made no sense. Additionally, they were not at all violent, so a war based story was equally irrelevant. But in response to my question about a white guy with a pygmy band, Jim hadn’t heard it.
Then in one of those serendipitous moments, Emile buzzed to say that a Monsieur Thomas was there to see me. Yep, he was as described – a gaunt, pale-faced young man sporting a scraggly beard. He wore an old tee shirt, shorts and flip flops. He held an Australian bush hat in hand. Introducing himself as Thomas Breaux, he said he heard from Rob that I might help him. I noted that as the American Vice Consul I was charged with seeing to the welfare of Americans in the country. There were things I could do and things I couldn’t. But first, I asked that he tell me about himself. I was curious as to why he was living with pygmies.
He stumbled at first, advised that he had not spoken much English lately. He also seemed reluctant to tell much, so I just got a bare outline. He had been with an overland London to Nairobi group called Siafu. Thomas said group dynamics were poor; people were selfish, bickering and snarling at each other after several weeks in the truck. He’d had enough, so when they camped near Boda to photo the pygmies, Thomas said he packed his stuff, told the driver to screw himself and walked away. After the overlanders left, he gradually became friendly with Adamo, one of the young Bayaka men. He later learned that his friend was just a visitor to the fringes of civilization. His family group lived far off in the forest. To make things short, he accompanied Adamo on his return trip home. They walked for several weeks. By then Thomas said he was so lost in the forest that he had no way out, even if he wanted to leave.
Instead Thomas said he adjusted, took each day as it came – just like the pygmies did. He gradually learned their language. As his cigarettes and lighter expired, he lost what utility he had to them, although certainly he retained his entertainment value. The pygmies laughed a lot – at him, at each other, at themselves. They always saw the bright side of circumstances. Life was uncomplicated. Search for food, link up nets for hunting, pause for a while in this or that camp, then move on. Although puzzled over him, the small band included Thomas without rancor. Thomas said he learned an enormous amount of forest lore, some Bayaka songs, but more especially the value of human relationships, of gentleness, tolerance and inclusion. He admitted that he needed that healing. When the time came several weeks ago, when Adamo told him they were approaching a town, Thomas said he too knew that his sojourn with the people of the forest was over.
He guessed he needed to reconnect and to tell his father where he was. Their last contact came before Thomas left New York. I offered to stake him to a phone call, but he demurred. His telex essentially said, “Alive and well in Bangui, send money.”
Two days later, Thomas passed by to say thanks. He had just gotten money from the bank. He’d decided to continue on to Kenya. He said goodbye and walked towards the Zaire ferry.
Such people come and go through our lives. I did not really know Thomas at all, yet his small saga taught me something about simplifying complexities and the value of trusting relationships. Yet, it seemed that within his own family, Thomas could not practice his own new gospel.
Of course, I never knew what happened to him.
Passing Through
It had been a good month for vendors, but poor for commerce. The string of salesmen stopping by home or office in the shady African backwater capital had offered poached ivory - usually small tusks indicating taken from females – smelly leopard skins, or carefully produced leather pouches containing a half dozen little brown stones – diamonds they averred. A few businessmen laid out artistic wares, mostly masks from neighboring Zaire. I was intrigued by a few of those, but had only added one to my collection. As for the ivory and leopard skins I explained that international commerce in either was illegal so I could not and would not buy. The seller, of course, saw this riposte as a bargaining ploy and tried to haggle on. I usually listened to the diamond merchants’ stories about how these were from a clandestine dig, had been brought home by a brother, were the family treasure but now needed to be sold for medicine – ergo, they could be had cheaply. I had no ability to tell if the little rocks were uncut diamonds, pieces of glass or whatever, but I did suggest that the purveyor take them to the American-owned, diamond purchasing office downtown for analysis and possible purchase. Once I asked Fred, the U.S. rep for the office, if any walk-ins really had good stuff. He said that often they did have small industrial grade stones, which, he said, reflected nation-wide artisan production. Only once, he told me, had he really bought a very nice gem stone from a street vendor. He cautioned me not to buy raw diamonds from anyone. He added that the broken glass sellers never stopped by his place for an estimate.
Lately, there was a new wrinkle to sales pitches. Emile, the receptionist buzzed me to advise that a “commercant” wanted to see me. This gent was well dressed and spoke good French. He said he had come upon a “strategic material” that he knew the U.S. needed to corral. After prodding, he confided that it was the uranium used in nuclear bombs. It had come from mines in Zaire. Although he said he could not reveal how he had come to possess it, he affirmed it was radioactive. I asked him to describe what he was talking about: was it liquid or solid, how was it packed? How did he know it was radioactive?
In reply he said it was solid. That answer immediately piqued my interest. This was not just another “red lead” approach. Mercury that had been used in various sorts of x-ray machines circulated in little vials throughout Central Africa. If some of this stuff was slightly radioactive, that was nothing compared to its danger as mercury – especially when used by some “guérisseur” as part of a local cure. Given America’s nuclear might, red lead was flogged from time to time by the street vendors that came to see me.
I remembered a cable from Kinshasa several months back that detailed the disappearance some years ago of a very small quantity of material from the nuclear facility at the university there. Apparently the stolen stuff had no possible weapons implications, but it was real, processed, radioactive and possibly dangerous if kept near people. At the time I had visions of a whole family being poisoned from sleeping near a little brown suitcase with the missing uranium in it.
I asked for a moment, dug out the cable – I did do a little proper filing now and then – and warned my interlocutor of what he might have. He was crestfallen when I said the U.S. government did not want to purchase his item. He blustered that he would go to the French, Soviets or Chinese. I said fine, his stuff really had no value except at the research center from which it had been stolen. He left in a huff.
I recounted this encounter to Joe, the Peace Corps director, over our luncheon beer on the terrace of the New Palace Hotel. Joe, in turn, passed on word from a PCV in Mbaiki, a town at the edge of the great Congo basin forest, some seventy miles south of town. Rob reported that he had first heard about then finally met a bedraggled “blanc” in the market. The man in question said his name was Thomas (pronounced Tow-ma in the French fashion) and that he was an American. Rob invited him home for a meal and heard a bit of his story. Essentially Thomas had been living with a pygmy band for over a year roaming through the vast forest.
Except for a missionary zealot who had vanished while testing the upper rapids of the Oubangui River some ten years earlier – and was presumably eaten by crocodiles - I had no current lookouts for missing Americans. Thomas intrigued us. Was his story truthful and if so, why? We mulled it over, but having run into a number of wayward individuals over the years, reckoned that he probably had his motives. I had no mandate to go look for this guy, but asked Joe to tell Rob to tell Thomas that if he needed any assistance to come see me.
Over the next couple of days, I thought more about Thomas. I grew curiouser and curiouser. Why would some one purposely seek out a stone age existence? Not just for a week or two as an adventure, but for a year or more. I decided to touch base with the local pygmy watchers. Ian, a Quebecois, was part of a university medical team studying pygmies. I had visited their field clinic in the forest. They measured, took blood, obtained family histories, etc. all part of a greater quest to find Eve, the mother of us all. Ian confirmed that his team had picked up rumors from pygmy contacts to the effect that a white shadow was lurking deep in the forest. He thought that was a relatively new phenomenon, but added that the pygmies were full of apocryphal stories. It was impossible to separate fiction from fact. My other pygmy expert was a missionary whose group was translating the Bible into African tongues, including Yaka, the language of the Bayaka, the pygmies of the region. Jim said they started with a few Bible stories like Joseph’s coat of many colors and David and Goliath, both of which had worked well elsewhere in country. He candidly confessed, however, that neither story registered with the pygmies. They did not wear clothes, so coveting a coat made no sense. Additionally, they were not at all violent, so a war based story was equally irrelevant. But in response to my question about a white guy with a pygmy band, Jim hadn’t heard it.
Then in one of those serendipitous moments, Emile buzzed to say that a Monsieur Thomas was there to see me. Yep, he was as described – a gaunt, pale-faced young man sporting a scraggly beard. He wore an old tee shirt, shorts and flip flops. He held an Australian bush hat in hand. Introducing himself as Thomas Breaux, he said he heard from Rob that I might help him. I noted that as the American Vice Consul I was charged with seeing to the welfare of Americans in the country. There were things I could do and things I couldn’t. But first, I asked that he tell me about himself. I was curious as to why he was living with pygmies.
He stumbled at first, advised that he had not spoken much English lately. He also seemed reluctant to tell much, so I just got a bare outline. He had been with an overland London to Nairobi group called Siafu. Thomas said group dynamics were poor; people were selfish, bickering and snarling at each other after several weeks in the truck. He’d had enough, so when they camped near Boda to photo the pygmies, Thomas said he packed his stuff, told the driver to screw himself and walked away. After the overlanders left, he gradually became friendly with Adamo, one of the young Bayaka men. He later learned that his friend was just a visitor to the fringes of civilization. His family group lived far off in the forest. To make things short, he accompanied Adamo on his return trip home. They walked for several weeks. By then Thomas said he was so lost in the forest that he had no way out, even if he wanted to leave.
Instead Thomas said he adjusted, took each day as it came – just like the pygmies did. He gradually learned their language. As his cigarettes and lighter expired, he lost what utility he had to them, although certainly he retained his entertainment value. The pygmies laughed a lot – at him, at each other, at themselves. They always saw the bright side of circumstances. Life was uncomplicated. Search for food, link up nets for hunting, pause for a while in this or that camp, then move on. Although puzzled over him, the small band included Thomas without rancor. Thomas said he learned an enormous amount of forest lore, some Bayaka songs, but more especially the value of human relationships, of gentleness, tolerance and inclusion. He admitted that he needed that healing. When the time came several weeks ago, when Adamo told him they were approaching a town, Thomas said he too knew that his sojourn with the people of the forest was over.
He guessed he needed to reconnect and to tell his father where he was. Their last contact came before Thomas left New York. I offered to stake him to a phone call, but he demurred. His telex essentially said, “Alive and well in Bangui, send money.”
Two days later, Thomas passed by to say thanks. He had just gotten money from the bank. He’d decided to continue on to Kenya. He said goodbye and walked towards the Zaire ferry.
Such people come and go through our lives. I did not really know Thomas at all, yet his small saga taught me something about simplifying complexities and the value of trusting relationships. Yet, it seemed that within his own family, Thomas could not practice his own new gospel.
Of course, I never knew what happened to him.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Central African Republic - Buffeted by Troubles
I worry about the Central African Republic. I suppose not many people do. It’s a small isolated nation in the heart of Africa. Surrounded by troubles in Sudan, Chad and Congo, nonetheless the CAR has proven capable of surfacing indigenous travails; most of which revolve around tribal politics or bad governance. The saddest part of the CAR’s plight is that nothing need be so bad. Ample opportunities to correct matters have been squandered over the years by self-serving politicians, military chiefs and even the people themselves via passivism in the face of egregious abuses and electoral choices that backfired. Yet, despite the malaise and corruption that belie the country, people are ever optimistic that matters will improve.
Currently, however, unrelated strife in two sections of the country poses difficulties. First, in the far northeast around the town of Birao – truly one of the most isolated towns in all of Africa – the Sudanese Darfur conflict spilled across the border in the form of raids by Janjaweed militias on horseback. The Birao region has much in common with Darfur. It is true Sahaelean land where the conflict between herders and agriculturalists mirrors the imbroglio across the border. Fighting around Birao, however, was exacerbated by CAR army troops who, being southerners from the woodlands and forests to the south, were incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, so chased everyone. With the support of French air power, the CAR army has prevailed for the time being, but Birao town was emptied and the citizenry highly annoyed. The CAR army is simply incapable of maintaining a strong military presence in the northeast; so how matters will shake out in the region in the months to come remains unknown. Perhaps one positive aspect of the fighting is the provision of an additional reason for the UN Security Council to act more vigorously vis a vis Darfur because the Council does have the specific mandate to contain international aggression.
Further west in the northern CAR around the town of Paoua near the Chadian border, the CAR’s internal politics are the cause for strife. The area in trouble is the home region of ousted and exiled President Felix Patasse. The incumbent government of President Francois Bozize continues to believe – with legitimate cause – that the region remains supportive of the ex-president. Thus, it over-reacts with violence to minor sparks of opposition. Short of more inclusive political reconciliation, which is unlikely, the region will remain a tinderbox; mostly to the detriment of rural inhabitants caught in the melee of government heavy-handedness.
One small bright spot in the CAR is in the far southeast along the upper reaches of the Mbomou River and border with the Congo and Sudan. There nearly forty thousand refugees from Sudan’s southern civil war settled since the 1980s and even before. Conclusion of that war in the Sudan in 2004 resulted in massive returns of these refugees to their ancestral homelands around Torit. To its credit the CAR had welcomed and assisted the refugees over the years. They, in fact, quadrupled the population of the thinly peopled east. Yet, despite the hospitality, they were still Sudanese refugees whose stay was temporary. When circumstances were right for their exodus, they went home.
So what can the outside world do for the CAR? There are no easy formulas. A regional, UN backed peace keeping mission has fostered peace in the capital, but doesn’t have the capacity (or mandate) to project forces. France, the former colonial power, retains interest and involvement in the CAR, but is reluctant to do too much. The U.S. has minimal diplomatic presence, few resources and little interest. The UN system responds adequately to humanitarian and refugee issues, but the remoteness of the needy areas limits effectiveness. So ultimately, it is up to the Central Africans themselves to shed the political and economic malaise that engulfs them. That is a tall order that can only be accomplished by many little steps. There is a continuing effort to rectify problems, but don’t expect too much. Meanwhile, worry.
Currently, however, unrelated strife in two sections of the country poses difficulties. First, in the far northeast around the town of Birao – truly one of the most isolated towns in all of Africa – the Sudanese Darfur conflict spilled across the border in the form of raids by Janjaweed militias on horseback. The Birao region has much in common with Darfur. It is true Sahaelean land where the conflict between herders and agriculturalists mirrors the imbroglio across the border. Fighting around Birao, however, was exacerbated by CAR army troops who, being southerners from the woodlands and forests to the south, were incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, so chased everyone. With the support of French air power, the CAR army has prevailed for the time being, but Birao town was emptied and the citizenry highly annoyed. The CAR army is simply incapable of maintaining a strong military presence in the northeast; so how matters will shake out in the region in the months to come remains unknown. Perhaps one positive aspect of the fighting is the provision of an additional reason for the UN Security Council to act more vigorously vis a vis Darfur because the Council does have the specific mandate to contain international aggression.
Further west in the northern CAR around the town of Paoua near the Chadian border, the CAR’s internal politics are the cause for strife. The area in trouble is the home region of ousted and exiled President Felix Patasse. The incumbent government of President Francois Bozize continues to believe – with legitimate cause – that the region remains supportive of the ex-president. Thus, it over-reacts with violence to minor sparks of opposition. Short of more inclusive political reconciliation, which is unlikely, the region will remain a tinderbox; mostly to the detriment of rural inhabitants caught in the melee of government heavy-handedness.
One small bright spot in the CAR is in the far southeast along the upper reaches of the Mbomou River and border with the Congo and Sudan. There nearly forty thousand refugees from Sudan’s southern civil war settled since the 1980s and even before. Conclusion of that war in the Sudan in 2004 resulted in massive returns of these refugees to their ancestral homelands around Torit. To its credit the CAR had welcomed and assisted the refugees over the years. They, in fact, quadrupled the population of the thinly peopled east. Yet, despite the hospitality, they were still Sudanese refugees whose stay was temporary. When circumstances were right for their exodus, they went home.
So what can the outside world do for the CAR? There are no easy formulas. A regional, UN backed peace keeping mission has fostered peace in the capital, but doesn’t have the capacity (or mandate) to project forces. France, the former colonial power, retains interest and involvement in the CAR, but is reluctant to do too much. The U.S. has minimal diplomatic presence, few resources and little interest. The UN system responds adequately to humanitarian and refugee issues, but the remoteness of the needy areas limits effectiveness. So ultimately, it is up to the Central Africans themselves to shed the political and economic malaise that engulfs them. That is a tall order that can only be accomplished by many little steps. There is a continuing effort to rectify problems, but don’t expect too much. Meanwhile, worry.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Golf in Africa
Following is a piece that I wrote about my golfing experiences in Africa that was published in the April 2007 edition of the Foreign Service Journal.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Rwanda - President Bizimungu Freed
Lost in the flurry of reports from Rwanda last weekend commemorating the 1994 genocide was the news that President Paul Kagame pardoned former President Pasteur Bizimungu and released him from prison. Bizimungu had served five years of a fifteen year sentence for treason. Bizimungu was reportedly delighted (who would not be?) with the news. He was cautioned by officials to become a law abiding citizen.
Bizimungu’s initial arrest and conviction were contentious. Although there was probably some corruption mud on him, his troubles really arose from political reasons. As a Hutu, President during the early RPF era (1994 to 2000) and untainted by genocide, Bizimungu was apparently deemed to pose a credible threat to continued insider dominance by Kagame and the clique around him. After falling out with the inner leadership and resigning in 2000, Bizimungu announced his intention to contest for the top post in the upcoming election with his own new party on his own platform. However, fearing a possible return to ethnic politics, the Tutsi element was determined to prevail. Accordingly, a number of measures were adopted to make it impossible (as in Bizimungu’s case) or very difficult as regarding the effort by former Prime Minister Twagiramungu or other Hutus to run. Naturally, little of this was couched overtly in ethnic terms, even though the code was known by all.
I judged at the time that President Kagame had little to fear from an electoral challenger. He had the name recognition, the power of the military and the power of incumbency. He was the savior of Rwanda and its true leader. Given the way that Rwandan society works, his election would almost be automatic. Yet, electoral success was assured by arrest of Bizimungu and intimidation of other candidates. The message as (correctly) read by voters was continuation of Kagame’s rule.
Once won, however, the question arose of what to do with Bizimungu? Charges (even partially trumped up ones) could not be dropped as that would fly in the face of Rwanda’s very determined efforts to institute a rule-of-law regime nationwide, especially in dealing with genocidaires (which Bizimungu was not, but resolving his case prematurely would smack of favoritism). Also, failure to move forward on the Bizimungu case would indicate that the charges against him were more political than real. Finally, stubbornly proud Rwanda did not want to be perceived as caving to international pressure to free the former president. Thus, the legal process had to run its course. This involved a trial, conviction, sentencing and appeals. Only when all the legal maneuverings were complete could exercise of the presidential power of commutation be considered.
To his credit, when the time was propitious President Kagame exercised his power and had his former colleague released. I judge the decision to have been overdue, but it certainly was a mark of political maturity. Pasteur Bizimungu poses no political threat to the regime, yet his release does indicate that old animosities must pass on and that all Rwandans can and ought to live together harmoniously. That is good news. Rhetoric and reality should always match.
Bizimungu’s initial arrest and conviction were contentious. Although there was probably some corruption mud on him, his troubles really arose from political reasons. As a Hutu, President during the early RPF era (1994 to 2000) and untainted by genocide, Bizimungu was apparently deemed to pose a credible threat to continued insider dominance by Kagame and the clique around him. After falling out with the inner leadership and resigning in 2000, Bizimungu announced his intention to contest for the top post in the upcoming election with his own new party on his own platform. However, fearing a possible return to ethnic politics, the Tutsi element was determined to prevail. Accordingly, a number of measures were adopted to make it impossible (as in Bizimungu’s case) or very difficult as regarding the effort by former Prime Minister Twagiramungu or other Hutus to run. Naturally, little of this was couched overtly in ethnic terms, even though the code was known by all.
I judged at the time that President Kagame had little to fear from an electoral challenger. He had the name recognition, the power of the military and the power of incumbency. He was the savior of Rwanda and its true leader. Given the way that Rwandan society works, his election would almost be automatic. Yet, electoral success was assured by arrest of Bizimungu and intimidation of other candidates. The message as (correctly) read by voters was continuation of Kagame’s rule.
Once won, however, the question arose of what to do with Bizimungu? Charges (even partially trumped up ones) could not be dropped as that would fly in the face of Rwanda’s very determined efforts to institute a rule-of-law regime nationwide, especially in dealing with genocidaires (which Bizimungu was not, but resolving his case prematurely would smack of favoritism). Also, failure to move forward on the Bizimungu case would indicate that the charges against him were more political than real. Finally, stubbornly proud Rwanda did not want to be perceived as caving to international pressure to free the former president. Thus, the legal process had to run its course. This involved a trial, conviction, sentencing and appeals. Only when all the legal maneuverings were complete could exercise of the presidential power of commutation be considered.
To his credit, when the time was propitious President Kagame exercised his power and had his former colleague released. I judge the decision to have been overdue, but it certainly was a mark of political maturity. Pasteur Bizimungu poses no political threat to the regime, yet his release does indicate that old animosities must pass on and that all Rwandans can and ought to live together harmoniously. That is good news. Rhetoric and reality should always match.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Kenya - Who killed Robert Ouku?
On the morning of February 16, 1990 the Voice of Kenya radio announced that the mutilated and partially burned body of Robert Ouko, Kenya’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, had been found near his home in Koru. The minister had been reported as missing a day earlier.
Ouku’s death ushered in a long series of inquiries, investigations and speculations, but since the trail led into the highest reaches of Kenyan politics, further pursuit of culprits was stonewalled. No one has ever been charged with the crime.
Professors David William Cohen and E.S. Atieno Odhihambo wrote a book entitled The Risks of Knowledge: Investigations into the Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya, 1990, Athens, Ohio University Press, 2004. The authors recount what is known and unknown about the minister’s death.
Risks of Knowledge is a difficult book to describe and an awkward one to read. It is an erudite mélange of scholarship, sensationalist reporting and stilted legalese. The authors have multiple goals that they spell out in the introduction. Foremost is to assess how the investigations into Foreign Minister Ouko’s murder transformed Kenyan society. The authors assert that the knowledge revealed both wittingly and unwittingly, shed light on ambition, corruption and the practice of politics by Kenya’s most powerful people. Among the consequences of the investigations was the exposure of various efforts to cover-up the high level involvement undertaken in order to confuse and keep the public in the dark. The authors stated that this objective failed as the brouhaha surrounding such blatant attempts to obfuscate led to expanded and ultimately successful efforts to reform and to democratize Kenya.
Like the investigations themselves, the book wanders around a bit jumping from the material at hand to ruminations on its meaning and impact. However, the book does provide a solid structure for revisiting the murder. In turn it highlights evidence of “the white car” seen by the housekeeper, the site of the death, the missing note that perhaps named the abductors, Ouko’s whereabouts in the days before the murder, the minister’s state of mind, corruption linked to the molasses factory, Ouko’s falling out with President Moi, theories of family problems, and special branch abuses. At times the book reads like a murder mystery, yet as the authors point out early, there are no conclusions as to who did it? or why? only mounting evidence that permits readers to draw their own conclusions. Nonetheless, the mounting evidence and the authors’ analysis of it provide fascinating insights into Kenyan political society.
I kept waiting for the authors to deliver a promised discussion of how the investigation elevated the status of servants (such persons including housekeeper Selina and herdsman Shikuku provided the bulk of the damning testimony), granting them credibility in a society that tended to ignore the thoughts and observations of the lower classes, but other than the statement to that effect there was little analysis of this facet.
My disclaimer: Since I lived briefly in Koru as a PCV (1968) and worked in that area for nearly two years, I easily recalled the physical geography relevant to the murder. Although I did not know the minister, I knew other “big men” who owned farms in the sugar zone. Additionally, I gleaned some understanding of the dynamics of Luo politics, at least from the perspective of the common man. Finally, from a later diplomatic posting in next door Uganda, I assisted Ouku’s brother Barrack Mbajah to join his son in the U.S. in 1991.
Those who served in Kenya during the early nineties undoubtedly recall the ongoing soap opera of the investigations, especially the commission’s months long hearings that were reported verbatim in the Daily Nation. All that verbiage will jump back out at you as you read this book. For others who knew Kenya before or after this event, this book serves as a good divider. Earlier observers of the political scene, recalling Mboya’s and Kariuki’s deaths, would perhaps not be terribly surprised, albeit disappointed, that assassination would occur again. Later observers will more realistically appreciate the political currents unleashed by Ouko’s death and the changes subsequently wrought. In any case, Risks of Knowledge is an interesting foray into a complex topic. If you have patience, it is an excellent read.
Ouku’s death ushered in a long series of inquiries, investigations and speculations, but since the trail led into the highest reaches of Kenyan politics, further pursuit of culprits was stonewalled. No one has ever been charged with the crime.
Professors David William Cohen and E.S. Atieno Odhihambo wrote a book entitled The Risks of Knowledge: Investigations into the Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya, 1990, Athens, Ohio University Press, 2004. The authors recount what is known and unknown about the minister’s death.
Risks of Knowledge is a difficult book to describe and an awkward one to read. It is an erudite mélange of scholarship, sensationalist reporting and stilted legalese. The authors have multiple goals that they spell out in the introduction. Foremost is to assess how the investigations into Foreign Minister Ouko’s murder transformed Kenyan society. The authors assert that the knowledge revealed both wittingly and unwittingly, shed light on ambition, corruption and the practice of politics by Kenya’s most powerful people. Among the consequences of the investigations was the exposure of various efforts to cover-up the high level involvement undertaken in order to confuse and keep the public in the dark. The authors stated that this objective failed as the brouhaha surrounding such blatant attempts to obfuscate led to expanded and ultimately successful efforts to reform and to democratize Kenya.
Like the investigations themselves, the book wanders around a bit jumping from the material at hand to ruminations on its meaning and impact. However, the book does provide a solid structure for revisiting the murder. In turn it highlights evidence of “the white car” seen by the housekeeper, the site of the death, the missing note that perhaps named the abductors, Ouko’s whereabouts in the days before the murder, the minister’s state of mind, corruption linked to the molasses factory, Ouko’s falling out with President Moi, theories of family problems, and special branch abuses. At times the book reads like a murder mystery, yet as the authors point out early, there are no conclusions as to who did it? or why? only mounting evidence that permits readers to draw their own conclusions. Nonetheless, the mounting evidence and the authors’ analysis of it provide fascinating insights into Kenyan political society.
I kept waiting for the authors to deliver a promised discussion of how the investigation elevated the status of servants (such persons including housekeeper Selina and herdsman Shikuku provided the bulk of the damning testimony), granting them credibility in a society that tended to ignore the thoughts and observations of the lower classes, but other than the statement to that effect there was little analysis of this facet.
My disclaimer: Since I lived briefly in Koru as a PCV (1968) and worked in that area for nearly two years, I easily recalled the physical geography relevant to the murder. Although I did not know the minister, I knew other “big men” who owned farms in the sugar zone. Additionally, I gleaned some understanding of the dynamics of Luo politics, at least from the perspective of the common man. Finally, from a later diplomatic posting in next door Uganda, I assisted Ouku’s brother Barrack Mbajah to join his son in the U.S. in 1991.
Those who served in Kenya during the early nineties undoubtedly recall the ongoing soap opera of the investigations, especially the commission’s months long hearings that were reported verbatim in the Daily Nation. All that verbiage will jump back out at you as you read this book. For others who knew Kenya before or after this event, this book serves as a good divider. Earlier observers of the political scene, recalling Mboya’s and Kariuki’s deaths, would perhaps not be terribly surprised, albeit disappointed, that assassination would occur again. Later observers will more realistically appreciate the political currents unleashed by Ouko’s death and the changes subsequently wrought. In any case, Risks of Knowledge is an interesting foray into a complex topic. If you have patience, it is an excellent read.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Rwanda - Commemoration of the Genocide
April 7, 2007 marks the 13th anniversary of the commencement of Rwanda's terrible genocide. During the hundred days that followed April 7, 1994, almost a million souls perished in a cataclysm of violence that stunned the world...and the world did not respond to the violence. Consequently, guilt for the massive loss of life rests not only on the perpetrators, but also on those who stood by, both willingly and un-willingly, and did nothing. Without resolving issues of responsibility, it is, of course, proper that we pause again to honor the dead and the victims of this tragedy.
As U.S. Ambassador in Rwanda I attended a number of memorial services for the victims. Each year on April 7, a national commemoration was held. Such events involved the exhumation of a mass grave at a genocide site, then proper reburial of the victims. These were sobering occasions when the true horror of genocide was clear to see. Yet they were also healing sessions with prayers and speeches. The dead could now rest in peace. Those present recommitted themselves never to let such events happened again.
I was not in Rwanda when the genocide occurred, but I became the U.S. Ambassador there in the years afterwards. My tasks were recovery, return refugees, reconstruction and reconciliation. I wrote about these undertakings in my book "In the Aftermath of Genocide: the U.S. Role in Rwanda" (go to www.regribbin.com for more info). Reconciliation was the most nebulous of these tasks. How to contribute to a healing process between individuals and communities that were so decisively torn apart by hatred? Many Rwandans considered that the rendering of justice to be an important step. The U.S. could help there, so we created programs to help reconstitute the judicial system, train personnel, help draft a genocide law, etc. Socially, we supported a number of survivor groups, especially women's organizations, that inter alia worked to rebuild trust and communication between ethnic groups. Yet there was only so much outsiders could do. Reconciliation, that is admission of guilt, then forgiveness, are mostly individual decisions. Aid programs, church efforts, discussion groups, government attention to the issues, all could build a climate conducive to reconciliation, but the individuals involved had to make the decisions.
Even as people were coming to grips with such internalized issues, they had, had to get on with their lives. In this Rwandans were more successful. Homes were repaired, fields planted and commerce reignited. The refugees did return. The new ethic of "get along" promulgated by the government was accepted. After a while, peace and predictability returned to the hillsides.
One of the post-genocide/refugee return success stories was the placement of lost, orphaned or abandoned children with families throughout the nation. Initially over a hundred thousand children were collected into camps, orphanages and institutions. One model orphanage was run by an elderly American lady, the late Mrs. Roz Carr. A massive effort was undertaken to reunite the children with their families, extended families or place them in adoptive homes. This succeeded in fairly short order. By 2000 only several thousand children remained in group settings.
Following is an excerpt from my book that highlights this success.
" I visited an orphanage we supported in Rubungo just outside Kigali. A gracious lady, one of the sponsors of the orphanage, showed me around and explained how successful they were in placing children with extended or foster families. So much so, she said, that the institution would be closed within six months. In the meantime, she pointed with great pride to a cow contentedly chewing its cud in an adjacent pasture. She said the cow was newly acquired and would provide milk for the remaining children. She elaborated, saying that the cow had come to the orphanage as bride price. A girl in their charge agreed to marry, and the husband-to-be's family insisted that traditional practices be followed. Otherwise they believed the marriage would not be legitimate. Accordingly, a family group from the groom's side and a team of sponsors from the orphanage conducted traditional negotiations and settled on the cow as the bride price.
I found this transaction to be a remarkable statement of resilience and hope. Despite all the tragedy, lives went on. Customs adapted. "
As U.S. Ambassador in Rwanda I attended a number of memorial services for the victims. Each year on April 7, a national commemoration was held. Such events involved the exhumation of a mass grave at a genocide site, then proper reburial of the victims. These were sobering occasions when the true horror of genocide was clear to see. Yet they were also healing sessions with prayers and speeches. The dead could now rest in peace. Those present recommitted themselves never to let such events happened again.
I was not in Rwanda when the genocide occurred, but I became the U.S. Ambassador there in the years afterwards. My tasks were recovery, return refugees, reconstruction and reconciliation. I wrote about these undertakings in my book "In the Aftermath of Genocide: the U.S. Role in Rwanda" (go to www.regribbin.com for more info). Reconciliation was the most nebulous of these tasks. How to contribute to a healing process between individuals and communities that were so decisively torn apart by hatred? Many Rwandans considered that the rendering of justice to be an important step. The U.S. could help there, so we created programs to help reconstitute the judicial system, train personnel, help draft a genocide law, etc. Socially, we supported a number of survivor groups, especially women's organizations, that inter alia worked to rebuild trust and communication between ethnic groups. Yet there was only so much outsiders could do. Reconciliation, that is admission of guilt, then forgiveness, are mostly individual decisions. Aid programs, church efforts, discussion groups, government attention to the issues, all could build a climate conducive to reconciliation, but the individuals involved had to make the decisions.
Even as people were coming to grips with such internalized issues, they had, had to get on with their lives. In this Rwandans were more successful. Homes were repaired, fields planted and commerce reignited. The refugees did return. The new ethic of "get along" promulgated by the government was accepted. After a while, peace and predictability returned to the hillsides.
One of the post-genocide/refugee return success stories was the placement of lost, orphaned or abandoned children with families throughout the nation. Initially over a hundred thousand children were collected into camps, orphanages and institutions. One model orphanage was run by an elderly American lady, the late Mrs. Roz Carr. A massive effort was undertaken to reunite the children with their families, extended families or place them in adoptive homes. This succeeded in fairly short order. By 2000 only several thousand children remained in group settings.
Following is an excerpt from my book that highlights this success.
" I visited an orphanage we supported in Rubungo just outside Kigali. A gracious lady, one of the sponsors of the orphanage, showed me around and explained how successful they were in placing children with extended or foster families. So much so, she said, that the institution would be closed within six months. In the meantime, she pointed with great pride to a cow contentedly chewing its cud in an adjacent pasture. She said the cow was newly acquired and would provide milk for the remaining children. She elaborated, saying that the cow had come to the orphanage as bride price. A girl in their charge agreed to marry, and the husband-to-be's family insisted that traditional practices be followed. Otherwise they believed the marriage would not be legitimate. Accordingly, a family group from the groom's side and a team of sponsors from the orphanage conducted traditional negotiations and settled on the cow as the bride price.
I found this transaction to be a remarkable statement of resilience and hope. Despite all the tragedy, lives went on. Customs adapted. "
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