Asylum denied

In the midst of other research, I came across this account of an asylum seeker who was ultimately denied his request in 2007. It is obvious that the judges have never been to Congo. While there is no way of knowing whether the case merits the decision, it is possible the appellant could be telling the truth. Or perhaps better put, the reasons offered for dismissal do not necessarily support accusations that the appellant is lying.  

The judges claim that too many of the details don't add up, the events are unbelievable, too vague at times, or too many inconsistencies at other times and...all too often, simply mysterious. Sounds very Congo. Very in keeping with the way life works here- messy, incomprehensible, illogical, at odds with other accounts, and always full of conflicting perspectives. Yes, that is a description of daily life here.  

The story is that the appellant was a member of UDPS, who eventually led a sub-cell of the party, and participated in a march during which he was arrested. Hie was incarcerated, moved several times, did not know where he was being held, yet finally managed to escape. The details of the escape were especially troubling for the judges. It seems the man was randomly put in charge of other prisoners, and, at one point, inexplicably sent outside to purchase soft drinks. During the purchase, he came into contact with someone who had been sent to help him escape. He was put into a car and accompanied out of the country, first to Brazzaville, then Benin, Cote d'Ivoire, Tunisia, and finally England, where he was making his asylum appeal. 

The decision outlines all of the inconsistencies and small details that the judges held issue with. I say again, it is clear they have never been to Congo. The first sign of something amiss in Congo would be a story that is neat and clean and makes perfect sense. Nothing in Congo follows the logic of the world outside. There are several reasons for this, but one simple contributing factor is that people don't often ask questions. They don't often seek clarification. People themselves are content to follow where the road takes them. Mbisi alandaka kaka bisika mayi ezo tshola. Fish always follow where the water runs. Fish don't stop to question why the water is running that way, or who decided the water should flow through here, exactly. No, fish can't even see the river banks and cannot tell what is coming up ahead. But they are content to swim along with others, and where they are not content, sometimes they are more simply pulled by a current they cannot resist. Can fish swim backwards? 

Even when asked, questions cannot always be answered. While there might have been a time when I, too, would consider it highly implausible that a prisoner would be sent outside to buy drinks, I now understand that something like this could easily happen. Perhaps the guard was implicit in the escape plan (money can be a powerful persuader, and it likely wouldn't take much.) Perhaps the guard was feeling lazy or just wanted to exercise his power by ordering someone else to do something mundane. It seems more plausible that he was part of the plan. It is probably too much to think the man at the drink stand was coincidentally there. Certainly he'd been prepared with a car and driver and a time to appear. Certainly a guard had been instructed to feel rather thirsty at a particular time of day. Or maybe just to get the man outside, however he could, and that is the creative idea he developed. 

As far as escape plans go, it seems to make perfect (Congo) sense that one wouldn't offer their name or too much explanation about who they represent, where the destination would be or why any of it was happening. The less said the better. Going along with a stranger is surely a non-decision when considering the alternative is to return to prison. If, while buying a drink outside prison walls, a stranger comes up and says get in the car, the soon-to-be ex-prisoner can only imagine that person was sent by God. Of course, he would follow. And if God's messenger refused to introduce himself or offer details of the why and how, the soon-to-be ex-prisoner could only accept the silence and continue to be thankful for his chance at freedom. 

He is not thinking about the need to document the reality of his situation. He is not remembering which day it is or which hour. He is palm sweating, breathing hard, calming heart, keeping eyes wide while trying to not look, hoping this is not a dream. Moving forward. Following the water as far as it goes and hoping there is not a net in front of him. 

Research and interviews with people who have spent time in Congolese prisons all support many of the details of the experience. Not enough food, unsanitary conditions, constant movement between holding places. Beatings, torture. It's really hard to determine if the appellant is describing things as they are rumored to be or as he lived them. It all sounds completely plausible to me. Right down to the idea that he can't remember if he spent one day or a week in Benin. Knowing Congo, knowing the way things happen in the cloak of night, where days blend into another, where you are shuffled along without clear knowledge of intention or direction but simply instructed to do and so follow, yes all of these things seem completely plausible. That is the grand problem here. The lack of logic, consistency, and reason leads too often to situations that seem incredible. But that doesn't mean at all that they aren't true. 

The judges want formal membership cards (the appellant did leave the prison and the country directly. Was he supposed to stop home and grab all of his papers and cards and belongings?) They want letters that show position and rank, dates of entry and promotion without really recognizing that meeting minutes and lists of presence are not habitual protocol. It seems very much as though the decision takes all of the cultural considerations out of the equation. I am sure it is hard to determine truth from a part of the world where multiple truths exist with such frequency. 

Last night I happened to read a Twitter thread about a bank robbery. One of the guards was said to have made off with slightly more than a million dollars. Immediately the commentators have suspicions. How can a guard know the code and obtain the key to the vault. Surely he was helped by someone higher up. Or maybe he was paid to take the official blame for this while the real thieves make off with the rest of their cash. Or he was just set up completely and hasn't gotten any money, just the blame. Consensus on the thread is that the guard played a minimal role and those to blame hold positions in the higher echelons of the institution. They also recognize that the monthly salary of the guard, who is supposed to keep millions of dollars secure, should probably be reconsidered. Someone making 400$ a month in charge of millions will always feel tempted, they say, though no one offers an ideal amount that would somehow make the millions less appealing. Is there ever an ideal amount that, once reached, satiates the desire for more?

I noticed that the story was immediately pulled apart and analyzed with a cultural bent- people understood motivations, circuits of information, possibilities for corruption and collusion- all of the kinds of things missing from the English judges consideration. They understood impossibilities and hierarchies of action. Meanwhile, over in England, the judges were looking at photos and analyzing random object placement. In one photo, a chair is empty. In the second photo, there is an item on the seat. What does that mean, exactly? A shirt that appears white despite beatings and bleedings? Is that evidence? Somehow, it seems less plausible that a group of men would get together and stage a photo than the possibility that in the minutes between photos, an item may have been placed on a chair. Or that a shirt might not show the effects of being hit. I really wonder how clear the photos are and what is apparent and what must be construed. 2005- the date of events- is not that long ago,  and yet it was an era before deep social media, before everyone seemed to have a camera in their pocket. What is the quality of the image and what does it really show? 

I would be much more suspicious of a story that includes places, names, dates and hours. I would be much more suspicious of membership cards, letters, and photographs with all the right people and props in all the right places. And it seems likely, to me anyway, that if someone were going to lie about their experience, they would make sure to have all of those details. They would prepare a list of days and minutes, making sure to rehearse the sequence of events. If someone were making up a story, they might add some drama- an escape through a door left partially open by a guard bribed with cash or promises of grandeur. It seems to me a made up story would have full characters, a car chase, a plot. Something more than silence. Confusion. The appellant makes a statement about his bloody nose...which he saw "mixed with my tears." It is a big statement, an admission of crying. In all of my interviews, the participants talk about beatings and torture. They talk about hardship. No one talks about tears. Or crying. Or giving up hope. And the appellant is not really talking about that either. He is talking about having a bloody nose, which does not mean gushing. A bloody nose can be a quiet, subtle affair, especially when watered down with tears. 

There is really no way to know if the story is true. In the end, it remains just a story. A story that has been offered sincerely, or embellished, or made up entirely. Although, I suspect, nothing is ever entirely false, just as nothing is ever entirely true. There are only bits and pieces of reality and dreams and skewed perceptions; there are only misunderstandings, miscommunication and outright denial mixed in with sensual information, a network itself susceptible to misinterpretation, highly impressionable by environmental factors. Memories can be funny things. A little bit of what we thought would happen, what we wanted to happen, what really happened, and what would have been better if it had happened instead. 

Whatever happened, I sympathize greatly with the appellant, who is told outright that his story is a lie. It simply didn't happen. How to digest the fact of someone denying your reality, your existence, your story? We are only the sum of our stories, and if these are rejected, what are we left with? Who are we left to be? 

a choose-your-own-adventure story from the neighborhood

"Three days." I round the corner and see a man sitting on the cement stoop outside the barber shop. I can only assume he is speaking to me with his English. "It's been three days since I've seen another white person."

I immediately wonder where he's been since Abidjan has never struck me as that isolated. A few other random thoughts run through my mind though all I say is good morning.He's happy and somewhat surprised to hear my English response. "It's a bonus," I say and continue with my travels. Maybe he was hoping for more, but I just didn't have the power of small talk in me that day.

I see him a few times after that and wonder what his story is. He is obviously new to being a stranger and seems to be fumbling around the neighborhood, guided by several locals.

I finally hear bits and pieces and it's a sad story. He met a girl online...the infamous dreaded yet hopeful online connection. They talked, she asked for money, he sent it. And then he said he was coming to visit. Except when he showed up, she disappeared. No more online connection, no more answering her phone. Excuses followed by silence.

I imagine both characters in this story and all possible outcomes. He flew all the way to some random small town in Cote d'Ivoire. What a fairy tale if she had been sincere. But he is not typically attractive, a bit overweight, maybe that was enough to turn her away? Maybe she was just fishing for cash, or amusing herself on lonely afternoons? Clearly he is open to adventure and taking risks and going after a dream.Or perhaps he misinterpreted the whole thing and is a desperate stalker. Maybe she is hiding out in fear.

It turns out a family in the neighborhood met up with him in Port Bouet and (randomly?) offered to put him up for a few days. He was searching for a place to rent and I didn't get the ending. How long is he planning to stay? What will he do? What does he do that allowed him the free time and funds to fly around the world on a whim? And how did he meet that family anyway? What kind of conversation led to "Yeah, why don't you come stay with us for awhile, you random stranger you."

I haven't seen him lately. Maybe he has packed up and returned back home. Or maybe he packed up and went off in search of another adventure. Or maybe she came to her senses and decided to meet him after all.

The Mystery of the TVs, the Baby Boat People and Other Stories

People watching has long been one of my favorite sports. I can remember back to my early teens, sitting outside a grocery store waiting for the bus, watching the people. I love to wonder about their lives, where they are coming from and where they are going.  This quality makes me a definite porch person, or, until I get a porch or a balcony, a window person.

Now Nabih is not the only one who has stories to share as we walk to camp each morning. We’ve been thinking up scenarios to go with the TV People. One of our first nights here, I saw a man walking down the road with a TV, a heavy looking older model with a large, awkward bulging back. He was actually carrying it with one hand however, so it appeared slightly portable- in the loosest sense of the word portable.  He was just one of many people walking along the road that night and caught only my passing interest.  The next night however, I saw a boy carrying a similar looking TV in the opposite direction.  Maybe it was the same TV, gone off for repairs? The mystery really deepened on the third night, when I saw two men walking by, each carrying their own TV, again the same bulky model.  We’ve been keeping our eyes open for electronic repair shops in the neighborhood as we try to determine The Mystery of the TVs.

Mysteries passing below our windows are only the beginning of the perks of our new spot.  One of the reasons Abidjan made the yes list for relocation is the well-known soccer opportunities. I’d done some research about soccer training for Mohamed and had come up with ASEC Mimosas- where many of Ivory Coast’s talented players begin. Incredibly, the camp for kids, SolBeni, is just around the corner, nestled in the back of the “village” near the lagoon.  It has vast, beautiful pitches that Mohamed could barely tear his eyes from.  And if I can take a moment to indulge, the coach noticed him on the first day. Mohamed is that kind of player. While the soccer camp isn’t as strenuous as Mohamed was hoping, there is a more promising training program that he will begin soon.

I usually walk the boys over in the morning.  And that’s when I saw the Baby Boat People. Here in what’s called M’Pouto Village the housing is a mix of new buildings being constructed, apartments and shacks.  There are still a few lots full of trees and greenery. At the end of the road is a large open farming area that resembles the outskirts of a real village. I spend my time trying to enjoy the scenes around me without wondering too much about the impact of construction- good for better quality housing but not so good for the lush green environment surrounding us.

One of the roads leading to the camp is lined with “businesses” – wooden stalls that host all manner of items for sale from bags of charcoal to mangoes and oranges to shoe repair and polishing services. On our first morning walk to camp, the square wooden tables were filled with small children sitting on top. Their mothers were busy sweeping the ground beneath and around the stalls or arranging the endless buckets needed for daily routines.  I looked out across a sea of babies floating on wooden ‘boats.’ Some held as many as 4 little cuties in the bow, others hosted one or two, all were sitting fairly still amusing themselves with a plastic bowl or other small item. No one seemed concerned they might get restless or squrim about and fall off. By the time I made my return, the babies had been released to the dirt. They were happily running, playing and getting washed.  Though the timing hasn’t been right for me to encounter the Boat Babies again, it’s a sight not easily forgotten, a sight that should make it’s way into a picture book perhaps one day, when I get my balcony and I can spend hours sketching and writing away.

The perks of the neighborhood include the nearby cyber café, the market- where the women speak French, making it so much easier for me to talk to them, and the abundance of fruit sellers.  The mangoes are huge and cheap; the bananas are ripe and not too stingy.  Unlike the Kinshasa fruit, here I can almost see the vitamins and goodness bursting from the juicy pulp.  The garbage is collected and taken away- well, whatever the goats don’t get to first.  There is a small family of young goats that wander around- 7 of them. Two are still babies, two are frisky teenager types and the other three are somewhere in between.  They provide a brand of entertainment on their own.  And the people are mostly friendly.

The boys and I get some stares when we venture out to the camp or the cafe, but I am thinking that will eventually end as we become just another part of the routines.  Needing to use a public internet connection has left me realizing just how often I am used to being connected- and the different types of connecting I tend to do. There is the finding stuff out connection, when I ask questions, figure out how to do things, search recipes or read the news. While we do have TV, I prefer the interactive nature of getting my news online, where I can follow my interests and find relevant stories. I haven’t been doing much of this type of connection lately but was happy to hear Meriam has been released- and apparently rearrested?!!  I need more news in my life. Finding stuff out searching has been reduced to a bare minimum- only the most important questions warrant an internet inquiry.

Social connection including email and Facebook is another type of connection that has really been trimmed down. When I am there, the clock is ever ticking, alerting me to just how much time I have left and it creates a harried sort of experience. Browsing Facebook and trying to update my page with posts of my thoughts and photos feels so rushed. I may get used to it, but it could take awhile.  Along with that is collecting books on my kindle. Summer is for reading, right? Something about the clock ticking makes me feel so un-relaxed, even if I can easily add another 30 minutes.

Random browsing, which I liken to reading “potato chip” books or magazines is completely banished. No time or francs for that. Following little whims and collecting bits and pieces of fascinating but useless facts does not even make the list of possible things to do (yet. Boredom may win out and have us all hanging at the café more than we currently imagine.)  

Publishing ideas to my blog is another reason for connecting. I usually try to get all my ideas down on my computer at home and then bring a USB to copy and paste from. It still requires a bit of time to read and reread, to edit and revise, to add photos and captions. I put this one higher on my list of priorities only because otherwise the words tumble around in my head, leaving my thoughts a cluttered, jumbled mess.  But the experience  has left me wondering.

When my class was studying human rights and global issues, the idea of having access to technology and internet came up- or rather was one I posed to the students as I’d read of it being proposed as a global issue. While we had some good discussions, I personally hadn’t reached any real conclusions. It’s hard to focus on the importance of internet connection when clean drinking water seems so much more important.

In the end, I don’t think the global issues are meant to compete with each other.  If there is one clear thing that comes from examining the issues, it’s the idea that they are all related, tied together so tightly it’s hard to separate one idea or issue from another. And I can see how technology fits in there. As a part of education. As a part of knowing. As a part of being part of the larger world and having the same benefits and advantages that others have.  Ben’s group focuses largely on securing and providing technology and internet access to students of all ages and that has always made sense to me and seemed like a worthwhile cause.   While I am feeling fine for now with my intermittent connection abilities, I know it won’t last. I will want more, crave more information, more understanding, more connection to the happenings of the world. And so, while I may not be able to concede a greater importance to internet connection than clean, running water, I can definitely say I am no longer clouded on the issue.  

A Good Read

Preparing for the annual trek across the ocean means stocking up on reading material. Experience tells me the planes will be long, the layovers fraught with early morning awake hours and children too hyped up and overstimulated for much sleep to occur.

I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships,  I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?

Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?

I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.

What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.

Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.

But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away  I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.

And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.