Picking at Scabs

Untouchable politicians.

In 2007, my family was living in a country where a sitting president manipulated election results to remain in power. Without the ability to be heard by the government, the opposition party and supporters began to protest. Peaceful protests fell on deaf ears as the sitting president swore himself back into office on national television. In addition to nonviolent protests, the opposition party went on a violent killing spree, mowing down supporters of the president. In retaliation, police shot and killed hundreds of protesters on live TV. Because the president and his party were of one tribe and the opposition and his party were of another, killing escalated into targeted ethnic cleansing along both tribal lines.

As an expatriate living there, this wasn't our war. But on our compound, we housed friends from both tribes. When the government blacked out all media, we woke the next morning to shouting and gunfire at the gate of our compound. A posse of armed people were going gate to gate demanding that residents turn over any members of the “wrong” tribe. All of the sudden we were housing dozens of people who would be killed if they left our property.

We were trapped in our house. There was no gasoline for vehicles or airtime for cell phones. We had to stay away from the windows in our home to avoid stray bullets. Tear gas and pepper spray hung in the air. We couldn't leave even if we wanted to and despite our families' desperate pleas to return to the States, we didn't want to leave; there were people to take care of and feed and house and keep safe.

Within days, stories of husbands killing wives from the opposite tribe began to spread. Friends killed friends. Thousands of people began migrating toward their tribal homelands in order to be surrounded by those who would not kill them. In our area, literally under the dark cover of night, 5,000 people arrived at the police station ½ km from our house. The police station was no bigger than a 7-11 convenience store. In the highlands where we lived, nights were damp and cold. It rained a lot and getting around was not easy. At the police station, women were giving birth in freezing temperatures with no shelter, no food or water, no medical assistance. The sick got sicker and the children cried until heartbreak and fear became the new normal.

Our family mobilized to help. It was impossible to remain in lock down when there was a bottomless canyon of basic needs outside our door. We gathered all the rice we could find on the compound and spent a day cooking in huge pots. Another neighbor had access to a water truck and filled it from rainwater cisterns at various houses. We arrived at the IDP camp/police station and nothing could prepare us for what we saw – thousands of hungry, cold, injured and terrified people. There was no bathroom or water or shelter. Some sat on belongings that were wrapped up in sheets as luggage. Some cradled babies on their chests and backs, patting and hushing and whispering calming songs. Some were wailing for all they had lost and for all they might lose at any moment.

It is not easy to imagine what humanity smells like at this level or how the heart breaks under this pressure or what it sounds like to lose everything overnight. I cannot even begin to scratch at it here and I believe I will spend a lifetime continuing to dig at the scab I've been trying to ignore since those days. To write is to remember the machetes and the bodies of children bleeding in the streets; it is to conjure the smell of smoke in the air after thirty souls were locked in the church and burned alive; it is to hear the faint sounds of screaming off in the distance as the four of us cried together in one bed all night, every night for weeks.

There are a hundred stories to write about this time, but I struggle even to write one. Yet as I watch what is happening to the United States right now, I cannot feel anything other than deep despair and fear. I've seen what can happen when power is left unchecked. I have watched families turn on each other and witnessed a nation hack itself to death. To think and say that it cannot happen here is a symptom of a nation fast asleep at the wheel.

We have untouchable politicians at the wheel. Whether they are of your “tribe” or not, I promise: you will rue the day you fell asleep.