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Existential Threats and Trayvon Martin: The bumper sticker politics of fear.

April 14, 2012 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 4 Comments

The first season of the Trayvon Martin reality show is finally over. George Zimmerman is behind bars 45 days after the shooting of an unarmed African American teen-ager which snowballed into a national soul searching crisis as to whether Americans are closet racists.

Activists, celebrities and ordinary citizens stepped up to express their outrage and demand justice. Tweets from Justine Beiber and Spike Lee along with thousands of irate phone calls flooded the airwaves; and civil rights politicians like Reverend Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out to denounce the act as an egregious example of racial hate crime.  The Rainbow Push coalition held hands, singing “We Shall Overcome” and the “Million Hoodie March” rallied in cities across America.   In a short period of time, over 2 million signatures petitioned for the arrest of George Zimmerman who continued to invoke self-defense under the “Stand-Your-Ground” law, which expands the rights of citizens to use deadly force in any public space if they feel threatened – albeit by a small framed, unarmed, skittles chewing minor like Trayvon.

The law which has been promoted by the National Rifle Association and Republican politicians have now been passed in 25 States and since its enactment in 2005, “justifiable” murders have increased several fold – 36 in Florida, up from 12 just 5 years ago.  Had the other 24 been literally getting away with murder before the law, or are we getting jumpier as a nation?

Mayor Bloomberg says it is clear that the law has undermined the integrity of the justice system, made the country less safe, and that it is promoting a culture of impunity.  Others call it “kill at will” or “shoot first”.   The national debate is curiously timely considering the broader global context.

In the past ten years, since the attacks on the twin towers, the U.S. has been increasingly basing its foreign policy narrative on the concept of preventive and pre-emptive attacks.  Dick Cheney even went so far as to make a case for action with as little as one percent probability of a threat clearly ruling out leaving his house in case of encounter with a discarded banana peel – a fear many of us wish he had heeded. Over the course of the past decade what started as a deadly attack by a handful of non-state loosely aligned actors in New York City, has lead to the invasion of several countries, the death of hundreds of thousand, and the displacement of millions in the Middle East and beyond as America consistently “stood its ground”.

George Bush rightly stressed his war on terror was not anti-muslim; no more than the Trayvon Martin case is anti black.  Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen and the proxy wars we wage in the horn of Africa and beyond are not about hate as much as they are about fear — fear that continues to get packaged and sold for political and economic gain by an increasingly violent America which uses violence as its principal currency as sure as it does its greenback.  We use violence as currency for entertainment, casually feeding it to our children in ever more brutal video games and demanding more of it in our movies — more than our European counterparts who seem to prefer sex – thanks to their Mediterranean DNA; and we use it as the prime currency to define ourselves as individuals whether at home, in our neighborhoods; or on the world stage by “standing our ground”, resolute and uncompromising no matter how asymmetric, intransigent and one sided our demands.

We nurture violence through the exploitation of fear by the right wing with links to a multi billion dollar arms industry which brings jobs to constituents who fund their Washington representatives to preserve their livelihoods; by the political machinery where each side postures as the more patriotic by being hardest on crime – hardest on terrorism; and mostly we nurture fear and violence by a disconnected public who gladly consumes the messages of a lazy and complicit media who mostly amplifies the conventional narrative of power without trying to reframe the conversation.

The Iraqi WMD wild goose chase quickly became “support our troops”; a multi billion dollar military expansion across the globe was sold as “peace through strength”; and the “war on terror” became the catch all phrase for the pursuit of all things evil by our heroic forces whose patriotism bars them from asking why.

The result is a polarized world with a clear “us” versus “them” narrative framed by fear, resolved through force. As the Trayvon Martin story plays itself on an endless loop on national channels, another round of “negotiations” to stop Iran from enriching uranium is taking place so that we may get over the election hump before bombing yet another country. Who knew election season could be so hazardous to your health.

As others more astute than myself have observed, and Mark Twain’s powerful reminder we choose to ignore, the rhetoric rhymes alarmingly with the argument for the Iraqi invasion – the mushroom cloud was it?  It is ironic how asymmetric “strength” can in fact lead to conflict rather than peace.  Even more ironic that the citizens of the strongest, most powerful country should be so ruled by fear that they should seek to eradicate even the smallest, most minute possibility of harm to the point that they would be scared out of their wits by a hoodie, or see a country with no evidence of a weapons program an existential threat to themselves and their ally who, between them, own over 8,000 nuclear warheads.

Barack Obama has successfully fended off an Israeli attack for the moment even as he embarks on non-starter negotiations, demanding the unreasonable even as he ratchets up “crippling sanctions” against 70 million Iranians.  Israel for its part is preparing for a strike by securing bases in Azerbaijan and unleashing AIPAC on the U.S. congress.

Following the tsunami of outrage against the injustice in the Trayvon Martin case, Mr. Obama finally broke his silence and offered this measured response:  “If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon Martin.”

Mr. president, in this election season as you walk the fine line between your Nobel Peace Prize and your second term, consider seeing beyond color – beyond borders, to see every child, every where, as your own.

Filed Under: Can We Talk?!!, Elections, Iran, Israel, Middle East and Beyond Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Congo Elections: Where is my Vote ?

December 17, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 5 Comments
Election 2011

UDPS

“I can give you the final calendar this afternoon.  I can’t do it right now because it is in the SEP’s office and he is in Kinshasa.”
“Oh, so he will return this afternoon?”
“…Meme demain – could be tomorrow.”
“But you said I should come back this afternoon.”
“Yes, because he is not here. He is in Kinshasa…”

 *** *** ***

 

The head of the Independent Elections Commission and the President’s good friend finally made the announcement and it came as no surprise that Joseph Kabila was the winner of 2011 Presidential Elections of the Dem Rep of Congo.   Ex-pats and observers alike braced themselves for the wrath of Etienne Tshisekedi’s opposition party, UDPS, and those who could, left the country for the friendly warmth of South Africa and beyond.

 

 The last elections I participated in were in 2006.  At that time the international community was driving the process. A Washington PR firm had been retained to brand the young Joseph Kabila, and every step of the election process was being spoon fed and hand delivered for the Congolese who got to sit in the back seat, enjoy the scenery and democratize by osmosis.   Large Technicolor billboards of Kabila dwarfed the other 32 candidates. The bold captions read: “Artisan de la Paix” – Artisan of Peace – a fitting title for a newly emerging country after a decade of civil war.  

So when Joseph Kabila took the eastern provinces by a landslide it did not surprise anyone.   His major rivals were Azaria Ruberwa and Jean Pierre Bemba – two warlords responsible for large scale massacres with the backing of Rwanda and Uganda.   I remember someone wrote “toka!” on Bemba’s face and voted Kabila.   It means — get lost! The vote was annulled because of the double marking yet it encapsulated the sentiment at the time.   Kabila had brought peace.  He had agreed to share power in a transition that included his adversaries. Who does that in Africa?   There was a lot of feel-good to go around and as the polling station drew to a close in the wee hours of the morning I looked around at the dozing witnesses and election agents, feeling happy to be sharing the night with my fellow Congolese at the birth of their new democracy.  

To be fair there have been some new roads, mostly to access mineral sites or in the center of town.   Kinshasa’s Blvd 30 June, marking the Day of Independence from the Belgians, and previously known as the dilapidated potholed stretch dividing the ex-pats from the locals is now sporting a brand new makeover with street lights, even traffic signs – digital!  Some new office buildings have also gone up to accommodate the influx of new players and of course a giant monument is going up commemorating the “5 Chantiers”.  However if you should venture out to any of the local quarters, it will be abundantly clear that outside of elite circles not much has changed for the ordinary Congolese. 

Campaigning for Kabila

Five years later the Congolese are running their own elections.  I went back as an observer to a distinctly different mood. Eastern Congo is as unruly as ever, exploitation of children, women and minerals is still a reality and the West has had to make room for China who has pledged billions in infrastructure projects and whose Africa policy can only be summed up as “don’t ask, don’t tell”.    This year’s elections were all about reconstruction and modernization. The new caption on the billboards read “5 Chantiers” – “Na Rais 100% Sur” – five infrastructure projects – with the President, a 100% sure.  The message was hammered close to 100% — 24/7 on public and private airwaves funded by state resources after the constitution was changed from a two tour to a single round plurality of votes handing Kabila the winning cards even before the games began.

The airport route to Grand Hotel Kinshasa is the same garbage infested stretch where hundreds of thousands of marginal lives claim their spots on piles of rubble and putrefying refuse eking out a few hundred francs against a grimy backdrop of crumbling structures.    In local neighborhoods, barefoot children, ragged and un-bathed, play in the trash, looking for something that could pass for a toy, and when the rains come, a deluge fills the potholes, swelling up in mud and sewage creating putrid lakes that float across the streets, nurturing mosquitoes and pests until the stagnant waters slowly subside leaving new formations of the old debris.

Across the country, most Congolese live from hand to mouth, civil servants go unpaid for years at a time, scarce employment is a function of ethnic ties, corruption and begging is a major source of livelihood, and the Congolese franc has sunk in a freefall – also 100% since 2006.        

Even before Elections, alliances of convenience were forged with Kabila’s PPRD party, and many of the over one hundred parties rallied around the president securing future posts and only presenting candidates at the legislative level.  Those with money and resources churned out caps and T-shirts and proceeded to pay off the destitute population to gain support and buy votes.   Three weeks into the campaign the exchange rate dropped from 930 to 750 due to the large demand for cash.    When the civic education bus rode through town, the population ran up to grab free brochures and the crowds practically mobbed the party official when he stepped into the crowd with a bagful of hats –  if it’s free we want it!

We watched kabila’s campaign across the country and marveled at how dirt poor people laid out flat, nose to the ground as he walked past. We spoke to villagers in the hinterlands of his home state and heard a chorus of 100% Rais, not quite sure what a “chantier” was.  Traditional chiefs gave out orders to their subjects to vote for the son of their province and opposition flags were torn down, their homes and businesses attacked and burnt in remote enclaves like Malemba-Nkulu and Manono.  The message was clear: Don’t even think of it!

candidat numero 3

The President is from the province of Katanga, Tshisekedi is from Kasai. For some, that is reason enough.

I asked a priest we stayed with in Kamina if there had been any “5 chantier” work in his town.  He is from the President’s tribe.

“None.   Not even half a chantier”  

“You think people would still vote Kabila?”

“Absolutely!  People here understand it was not their turn yet.   But now we have the Blvd 30 June in the capital.  That is something every Congolese can be proud of.” 

A Boulevard.  One thousand miles away.  Even as people live in darkness and go hungry.   But what of the hundreds of thousands not from the President’s tribe? Where they happy to go hungry knowing there is a brand new boulevard in the capital?

Patronage and exploitation were parallel drivers.    A flurry of sale of mining assets at a fraction of market value funded the campaign; over 18,000 candidates most with no background in politics vied for a lucrative 500 spots at the National Assembly as a fast track to wealth and status; and ordinary people awaited cash handouts or presented themselves for hire as party witnesses.
 
Within minutes of an interview it would be clear many parties were temporary instruments of elections or else satellite replicas to increase chances at legislative representation. Meanwhile, I wondered why the simplest items such as voting cardboard booths were imported from China instead of seen as a chance to create local jobs.  
The campaign rhetoric seemed short on issues.  Instead, candidates paid local and national celebrities to sing their praise while girls wiggled in the background and footage of the Boulevard 30 June played over and over. The 28th November date approached at an increasing speed while in Lumumbashi, the compilation center was just being built. No one seemed concerned.   The SEP – the Provincial Executive Secretary of the Election Commission in Katanga seemed to have wandered onto the project by accident. He had no answers to anything and watched TV most of the day.  His staff responded to every question with: d’ici deux, trois jours – soon..in a few days — and final calendars were apparent only after events took place.

Less than a week to go, the polling sites were assigned, but there was one problem.   Many of them did not exist.   We spent hours mapping our observation route walking in and out of primary schools with six or eight small rooms declared as thirty, forty, sometimes fifty stations.      We continued to make the rounds of the voting stations to see if the tents had arrived.  Nothing.   Instead we found hungry policemen posted at every site, unpaid and unfed for two days, waiting to guard the ballots which, come Sunday night had still not arrived.   

 

Police Waiting for the Ballots

“Madame – we are hungry.  Madame – give me some money.” I thought how easy it would be for anyone to buy a stack of ballots from any one of them at the dead of night — assuming there were any.  

“Pas de probleme;” the response of the Commission was ever so non-chalant.   “We will send them tents.  Or they can just go vote in a nearby site!”

Tents?! Where?   It was now two days before E-Day and not only half the stations were missing, the ballots were still sitting in the main warehouse, waiting for deployment into distant territories.  

“We are thinking of using either the South African military, or the United Nations or a commercial carrier.”   — Thinking?

waiting...waiting...in the sun

 E-Day was more like D-Day – as in Disaster!   The helicopters hired to assist in the deployment, once landed in DRC demanded payment, fuel and lodging before anything.   It was not clear who was responsible for that – after all it’s not like they can fill up at a local gas station and bill later. Then at three AM, Monday morning, two jeeps containing ballots were attacked and set ablaze by armed men.  

Where is my name ?!

When dawn fell, many polls could not open. For many there were no ballots, not a single tent – worse — there were not enough polling stations, and many could not find their names on the voter’s list. As the sun rose up in the sky, the lines got longer, thousands of people tried to cram inside small compounds insisting they could not walk another 5 or 10 miles to a different site. Some polling agents locked themselves in refusing to face the angry crowds; others took off their uniforms and jumped the walls rather than risk being beaten up. Increasingly our car was targeted as the one with possible answers or solution to problems. At first we reasoned or tried to help, but as the crowds grew ever more furious, anger descended into violence and we fled just as they began stoning our car.

"Ballot already marked!!"

Tshisekedi supporters felt targeted.   Was this some sick strategy to discourage voter turnout?  No one from their party had been represented on the Election board.

Then another attack took place.  Unidentified commandos stormed a voting site, killed several and wounded others burning more ballots.  Text messages came in with facts and fiction as to who they were – secessionist groups; angry unpaid policemen; Gideon — the cannibal warlord’s body guard – or was it his cook!?  An EU observer texted these elections reminded him of a Monty Python episode; and I began humming the soundtrack to the movie Brazil. Could things get more surreal? 

The Day After the Rage...

Burnt Ballots

By the time all the ballots were distributed it was close to 5:00 pm Monday evening. Many were discouraged and returned home.   Polls closed eleven hours after they opened, which meant many stations did not even begin counting until 4:00 am the following morning.   By the time our station finished it was Tuesday night. The police had now been without food since the Friday before. They declared if they were to suffer yet another night, everyone else should too.  They would hold the polling agents locked up in the compound until the following morning when they were due to get paid and relieved of duty.  Only the two international observers could leave — an announcement which immediately created a flurry of pleas to get smuggled out in our jeep.  
 

Still Counting...

“I have not seen my children in three days now,” begged one woman. “I am going to lay down in the back of your jeep and you take me away with you.  Yes — you will do this for me.”    

“Yes.   I will do exactly that.”  I said to her.  I had no doubt in my mind that I would too – except that instead, we took off our observer hats and negotiated with the police chief: food for all — provided they let everyone go.

Observers were texting results from their respective stations.   Tshisekedi was doing well — ahead by a close or comfortable margin.  The opposition was making gains in spite of lack of access to media and resources.   By the following morning UDPS volunteer members were making their rounds in the city, writing down the final posted results outside the voting stations.  The mood was celebratory.  After 30 years of struggle, it seemed like they had a chance.      
 

In front of UDPS HQ

  *** *** ***

Rule number 1:  If you must hold elections in Africa, do not do so in the rainy season.

The compilation center did manage to be operational after all – well – sort of.   The SEP in his usual reactive self had not thought of the logistics of handling over 1,400 polling stations in such a small facility in the rainy season.  As yet another brilliant move the two attacked jeeps filled with the burnt ballots had been towed and left in the narrow driveway.  As the president of each polling station arrived, exhausted and hungry, they dumped the bag of ballots and certified results outside the entrance and went home to sleep.   It then rained furiously every night, others came and more bundles piled up.  Soon the front entry looked like a dumpster of mud and soiled bags and the intense foot traffic used them as walkways over to the compilation center at the back. The sight of distraught polling supervisors muttering to themselves and looking for their bags outside the compilation center became a regular scene.

 

Inside the center a convoluted process of tabulation was in progress. Curiously things had gone from total chaos to super controlled, highly focused and secretive. I walked in just as the president of the tabulation center was making an announcement that his agents were strictly forbidden to give out any information to the observers. Strange. Why invite observers – then proceed to block them? We hovered around playing passive aggressive with the supervisors and tried to get a glimpse of numbers being passed from the tables back to the transmission post whose agents would not even make eye contact. On occasion when we did get a glimpse, some of the numbers looked odd: Kabila at several hundred; Tshisekedi just a handful — with unusually high turnouts. The Commission began to release partial results. UDPS seemed puzzled. So were we. The results did not reflect what we had seen. Could we accidentally have picked a skewed sampling?

Then by pure chance a set of numbers caught the eyes of one of the observers as papers shuffled past the tabulation post. He quickly scribbled them down. This was the center which had been attacked, therefore the last one to close. Several observers had gone back to write down final results posted outside.  So had we. It seemed we all matched each other, but not with the compilation center. According to my notes, no station had more than 200 voters at that site, yet the final tabulated numbers reflected a range of 600-800 with Kabila scoring over 90%.  

  *** *** ***

PPRD boys

Grand Hotel Kinshasa was in a festive mood the night Kabila’s victory was announced. The Congolese elite wearing new outfits in colorful Kabila prints danced and drummed throughout the hotel corridors. Bottles of champagne chilled at the Atrium café and couples pranced about the hallways wrapped in yellow PPRD capes and Kabila scarves. A woman wearing way too much make up and jewelry darted forward to kiss me as I passed her in the hallway — probably wishing to thank the internationals for making all this possible.  Outside the hotel, adolescent boys wearing Kabila T-shirts and caps blowed vuvuselas and asked for money as hotel clients walked by.  Later, around midnight, the crowd fought over provided transport for a ride home.   

 

I left for Njili airport 6:00 AM, the following morning. Tens of thousands were making their long walks into town for another day’s livelihood and the stench of rotting garbage filled the air. Glimpses of the old rusted railroad flashed through the gaping holes of the crumbling walls running alongside the road.    Riot police mobilized under ravaged billboards of Joseph Kabila; and ripped up remains of what used to be “Rais Na 100%” curled up in the humidity.  
 

Kinshasa - less than 100%


It seems this part of town did not celebrate the night before.  

*** *** ***

Filed Under: Can We Talk?!!, Congo, Elections, Politics, Conflict, Africa, Middle East

Nos Freres: Les Kasaians

November 27, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 4 Comments
Kamina

 

If you ever should come to the Congo be sure and ask for a window seat for it is only then that you will appreciate the size of this immense country which spans over two time zones; and feel the disconnect between disparate population centers who have come to find themselves citizens of the same country by the simple fluke of a colonial pen.                                                     

 I finally gave up my “kiss me” hat for a bright blue Chinese made umbrella from the local market. I have realized in Africa it is the sun which is the ultimate tyrant. My follicles are burning and my hair is falling out. Soon I will need some of the same colorful extensions and polyester wigs that I see the African mammas wearing. I now understand the reason behind those giant head wraps.

 

Kamina, a city of 200,000, is the capital of Haut Lomami in Southeastern Congo. It is also the entry way from the Province of Kasai where the railway spills down from the north to the mining areas in southern Katanga bringing a steady migration of Kasaians from the time of the Belgians through the reign of Mobutu and up to today. This territory is also the heartland of the Luba people, birthplace of the current president and home to the grand chief of the ancient Luba empire. You would think any one of these reasons should be enough to give Kamina some importance – or at least the functioning basics. But you would be wrong. It is a dustbowl of dirt roads filled with grimy impoverished souls who live on subsistence farming and mostly go unemployed.

My team mate and I are staying at an abbey run by a very short and very round abbot priest who rents out rooms for $15 a night – and this is the five star of the city. There is no running water and yours truly makes do with a bucket of cold water that is filled and placed at my door every day. The town is generally in the dark at night but the five star abbot motel has electricity, albeit intermittent and extremely feeble due to overload on the local power facilities – and this is not exactly considered an appliance heavy zone. The faint flicker is just enough to keep you from bumping into walls at night but you can forget about reading. S,omehow the old TV in the communal room where the priests eat works, and every day for hours on end they sit captivated in front of a continuous loop of ad campaigns for Joseph Kabila with the number 3 flashing in the corner – that’s candidat numero trois!

The highlight of the week is Sunday when the whole town dresses up to attend one of the astounding numbers of churches of all shapes and colors, to worship and sing songs. The abbot also dresses up in his finest, hops on his motorcycle and zips to his parish to orate on the wisdom of the almighty who must have surely had good reason to ignore his children in this part of the world. He says he is a Luba — a true Katangan, and has taken it upon himself to enlighten the two of us observers with regard to the hazards of disorderly migration and its eroding effects on society.

“Nos freres, les Kasaians. They are our brothers of course.”

“Of course.”

“But you can’t just have people streaming into your home, taking away jobs. It creates problems, unemployment, insecurities. You can hardly walk at night in the cities any more. People will steal your money”

“People?”

I told him I have lived in the U.S. for a long time and I have moved and changed states four times.

“Exactly!” the priest cuts me off. “So you know what I mean! Meme chez vous, I am sure they did not just let you move to California comme ca!”

“Uh, actually — I just packed up my bags and left Massachusetts; — new electricity bill, new driver’s license. That was that.”

“Ah oui?! How is that possible? You did not have to inform anyone?”

“Well… Yes actually. The local post office, so they would not throw out my old mail”.

*** *** ***

One Week Later – Breaking News:

“…Clashes in the city of Kamina – 600 kilometers Northeast of Lumumbashi during elections campaign. In the opposition neighborhoods where the Kasais live, at least a dozen homes were burnt, a woman was raped, many businesses were pillaged…” We called our friendly priest to get the skinny but he declined comment. He said it must have been a simple misunderstanding and hung up.

*** *** ***

Filed Under: Africa, Congo, Elections, Politics, Conflict, Africa, Middle East, Story Talk

Elections in Two Acts

November 11, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 3 Comments
Low Res_0149

What separates Congolese Elections from ours are two things:  Music and Machetes!   The first marks the enthusiastic opening of the electoral campaign and the other, well… that’s in case anything goes wrong.

Act I — Music: The first week of campaigning went off with an explosion of song and dance, hundreds of multi colored flags and more party acronyms than I or anyone else can keep track of. Posters were hung up daily by hopeful candidates only to be torn down by their adversaries the following day. The campaign strategy of choice is small and large motorized caravans blasting music twenty-four-seven on boom box mounted trucks filled with young, exuberant, often unemployed men.

The mayor was clearly exasperated when he received us. “What’s the matter with these people.  No coordination, no nothing …. on fait juste comme ca!  boooo baaaa boooo baaaa.”    

The candidates basically come in two varieties – those with Polos and those without Polos – that’s a T-shirt to us Anglophones.  The first group plasters the streets and media with cinemascope pictures and round the clock advertising.  They also pay their finest pop stars to sing their praise on their privately owned TV channels. The second group mostly peddles toilette paper size ads door to door, hauling their own party flag on a radio mounted motorcycle, screaming into a megaphone from town square to rally.  

The UDPS opposition party has the iconic Etienne Tshisekedi as their candidate — a 30 year veteran politician and career adversary of power since the time of Mobutu — and he apparently has the scars to prove it.  The bulk of his followers are the large population of Kassaians in various provinces, although he hopes to capitalize on Jean Pierre Bemba’s untimely detention at The Hague for crimes against humanity. JP came in second in 2006 Elections.  But that is a whole other story.

Within minutes of our arrival, the doorways, front yard and gate entrance of UDPS headquarters are jammed with members and partisans, spilling out into the pavement and the street, each brandishing a rectangular red card — chanting and singing.

  “What’s that?”  I ask a young man who shoves his card in my face.

“Carton Rouge! Carton Rouge!”   

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Madame!  Don’t you watch football?”

“No.”

“Bon!  It’s a red card! It means he is out of the game. Kabila must go!”

“Ah! You see….us women – we don’t know anything about soccer.”

Of the hundred and forty plus parties, most are aligned with the President and are only campaigning for legislative seats. To increase chances at representation, many have nominated additional candidates through parallel parties which will probably crash and burn after the elections are over. Meanwhile it’s the true Katangan identity that is hanging in the balance.  Who is real and who is fake – the topic which one week later brings us to Act II – Machetes:

We are walking in one of the poorer neighborhoods where the campaign caravan of UDPS clashed with knife and machete wielding youth of UNAFEC who claim to be guardians of the true Katangan identity.   One person is dead, another in coma and forty others injured.  The burnt and vandalized carcasses of three minibuses are still blocking the neighborhood.  The head of UNAFEC who calls himself the BABA – or “Father” of Katanga has said there are too many “mosquitoes” in his living room… Oh, to be so close to the Rwandan border and still take the names of insects in vain.

Today Lubakat men with grass skirts and painted faces are dancing in the streets. Our hotel is filling up with armed guards and the square is packing with polo wearing groups holding up flags and banners. President Kabila is coming to town and people are climbing walls and hanging from trees to see him.  Meanwhile Tshisekedi has not started campaigning. He has proclaimed himself President.  From South Africa.  His followers say he is just kidding but I wonder if his plane will even be cleared to land. 


On CNN, another Republican candidate in the U.S. is squirming out of a sexual scandal. <yawn> …. sounds like a rerun to me.

Filed Under: Africa, Congo, Elections, Politics, Conflict, Africa, Middle East, Story Talk

Midnight in DRC: Let the games begin…

October 28, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 4 Comments
Park Hotel Lumumbashi

DR Congo: Katanga – part of what is known as the copper belt of Africa containing the largest reserves on the continent.  This is also where the uranium for the Hiroshima and Nagasaki  bombs were sourced.  Further up, there is coltan and casseterite for those of you fixated on the cell phone story – and of course there is gold — that curiously useless, yet endlessly coveted shiny material which proves the basic two driving forces of human survival – fear and greed. If you further count its inexplicable wooing effects on the female species, you have covered the third instinct – sex.  

Ruashi Mines

Like the rest of Congo, Katanga is a mosaic of cultures, ethnicities and languages — forty three to be exact — excluding of course all the “foreigners.” And by that I don’t mean me.   I have my very own special designation: “Muzungu” – White; which means people point and call me out gratuitously on the street; and at every traffic light a policeman will stick his head inside the car, address me directly and ask me for money. Just because.

No. Here, the foreigners are from the next door province – the Kasai – once again a legacy left by the Belgian colonizers who brought them en masse to work in mining areas, gave them positions of privilege over the Katangans, notably the Luba, and created a schism which was later manipulated by Mobutu and others culminating on their wholesale persecution and expulsion in 1992.  They called them insects and asked the population to rise up – a creepy echo of what was to happen next door in Rwanda only two years later. 

Except for the very dead and departed Mobutu, many from the same generation are still around to animate the political narrative of next month’s Elections in Congo.  Eleven candidates are running.   Etienne Tshisekedi, a Kasaian, is the heavy weight presidential contender and long time political veteran since the time of Mobutu when he was jailed and tortured. Along with nine others, he will be facing off President Joseph Kabila, himself an ethnic Luba and the proverbial son of Katanga, which is considered to be his natural fiefdom. There are also over 18,000 candidates running for 500 seats in the National Assembly from 147 political parties — how is that for a vibrant democracy?!

 

It is a few minutes past midnight and the Election campaign has officially kicked off.   There is commotion outside my window and I can already see groups of young men hoisted up on their cars and climbing walls to hang the posters of their favorite candidates.  In a few hours the city will be covered with hundreds of names and faces.  I have rented a room in an old colonial hotel facing the main town square.   An open air jeep with disco lights, ghetto amps and doctored headlights is zooming through the empty square blaring dance music and yelling political slogans on the megaphone. Vote for my guy! Vote for my guy! 

 

I quickly throw on my observer shirt, take my camera and run downstairs to join the half-drunk clusters of youth climbing whatever they can. Their excitement is palpable. They instantly pull me amidst them, shake my hand, twirl me around to read the writing on my shirt and pose for me.  They point to the pictures and say he is the one.  He is the best. This time — this one will remember us when he gets to Kinshasa.  You’ll see. 

 

Filed Under: Africa, Congo, Elections, Story Talk, United_Nations

Rebels in the Mist

October 15, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 7 Comments
Salon de Coiffeur

I am in Kalemie. Its hot like an oven. I picked up a hat on the street only to realize at the last minute, it says “Kiss Me!”. I have to check the code of conduct I signed and see if I am violating any observer rules. Adalbert is our driver – a skinny little guy with a big grin who clunks us around in his boss’s car for $50 a day of which he keeps 5 – and this is the city rate. If we leave town we need a 4X4 and the price shoots up to $150. That’s actually cheap. The muzungu rate starts at $250 per day courtesy of the sad state of the roads and lack of other options.

The town is in the northern part of the province besides the beautiful Lake Tanganyika. Somewhere else this coast might have been dotted with bars and restaurants – maybe even a resort or two. Here, the local “super” market is a 3X6 with a dusty counter piled up with powdered milk, sugary drinks and cheap biscuits from the Emirates; and the closest to a café is the dilapidated “Hotel du Midi” with plastic chairs serving beer. Like the rest of Congo, this place must have seen better days before the war but there are still hints of colonial charm with its fading remains in the backdrop. There is even a mid-century rusty train sitting at the edge of town which has probably not moved since the Belgians left.


Today, besides the endless sprawl of basic staples and used consumables, every other sign along the main road reads either: Pharmacy, Hairdresser, Vodacom; or else its a guy sitting under an umbrella with his feet propped up on a wooden box piled with stacks of decomposing Congolese bills. These days the road is also dotted with an alphabet soup of political parties and fly-by-night local NGOs hoping to make a few bucks by offering “support” services to their favorite candidate. The pharmacies have names of god, Christ and his extended family; the political parties are titled Democracy, Progress, Liberation and other such fictional concepts. The most credible are the hairdressers and money changers. At least their objectives are clear.

Salon de Coiffeur


Pharmacie

The dust and the pollution are suffocating. Hundreds of motorcycle taxis race up and down kicking up a reddish storm as they try to avoid the deep trenches on either side of the road. And when the Colonel roars through town in his three jeep open cortege like some kind of celebrity, everything gets lost in a blur leaving only two options: keep the window down and inhale it all, or roll the window up and bake nice and toasty!

“C’est colonel Igwe.” Adalbert beams with childish adoration as the uniformed man in the cocked beret standing up in the first jeep makes victory signs and zooms past almost knocking us over. “En tout cas on est tres contentes” — What is it with Africans and their love affair with Big Men?!

Apparently the Colonel has been reassigned by popular demand after a series of armed banditries in broad daylight, a couple even at the bank disbursing salaries of the U.N. personnel – now that’s what I call going too far. They said there were police and soldiers nearby but they watched and drank beer. That’s Eastern Congo for you — national currency: Impunity.

Elections are barely 6 weeks away but honestly just making it to a polling sites will be a challenge considering the state of the roads and the credit roll of the armed groups — among them war lords who eat their victim’s body parts, Mai Mai rebels who think water makes them invincible, and ex-genociders from Rwanda still at large – some now apparently with registration cards – add to that — Gold, Coltan and Casseterite – Karibu Elections indeed!

I hope the superstar colonel has a plan.

Soldiers

Filed Under: Africa, Congo, Elections, Politics, Conflict, Africa, Middle East, Story Talk, United_Nations

From Tunis to Egypt: Democracy in Subtitles

January 29, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 11 Comments
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A simple fruit vendor sets himself ablaze in the sleepy hinterlands of Tunis as he finally snaps under the weight of the injustice of his life — and overnight nothing is as it was before. Martyr turned national hero, his scorched body triggers a deep pool of imbedded resentments from Algeria to Jordan and Yemen; and finally hundreds of thousands explode on the streets of Alexandria and Cairo, demanding change, screaming for justice and telling their unelected leaders to go home. Enough!


Captions across the international press are calling it the Tunisian “virus” – like a disease that is slowly taking contagion, putting long corrupt regimes on notice.

Algeria promptly took measures to step up grain imports on the theory that revolutionaries are less inclined to revolutionize on a full stomach; and Libya’s Ghaddafi, himself a 42 year veteran of a corrupt rule has denounced foreign plots and Wikileaks for being behind the intrigues.

Within days the 23-year patronage rule of President Ben Ali of Tunis came to an end as he and his entourage packed their Vuitton bags and boarded a plane for Saudi Arabia. What is it about this desert kingdom that makes it such a popular destination for dictators on the run?

After unprecedented curfew defying demonstrations across Egypt, Mr. Mubarak came out to face his people, promising a new cabinet. The old one he says was defective — a fantastic position in view of the fact that he is the one making all the decisions.

The winds of democracy have started to blow across a region whose demographic profile is textbook for such movements – young, unemployed, repressed and reviling their leaders. No wonder Allah is so popular in that part of the world — which brings us to the delicate balance of all things Middle East: The U.S. – Democracy – Islam and the Peace Process.

The Obama administration is admittedly in an awkward position, negotiating the balance between support for their anchor leader in the region and … well — the people of the region. The choices are to either abandon an ally and risk being thrown to the Islamic wolves; or walk the talk of Democracy, even if for no other reason than to prove to whoever is still listening that Iraq and Afghanistan were selfless adventures in nation building. They would be lucky if El Baradei is allowed political space before things get too out of hand. More likely, in a region where El Baradei and the U.N. is interpreted as U.S. influence, that prospect may be a delusion entertained by the same people clueless enough to think leaders like Mubarak could be viable allies in fostering peace.

Mubarak like others before him is making all the predictable arguments about the proverbial “fine line” between chaos and freedom – clichés used by every strong man from the Shah of Iran and Pinochet to the present day Saleh of Yemen and the Saudi family to justify repression. More important, he is the appointed regional crusader on the war on terror. Leaders of his generation are cartoon cutouts from the cold war era, simply having replaced the word “Communist Threat” by “Islamic Fundamentalist Threat” and pocketing military and development aid to suppress domestic dissent under its guise.

Meanwhile – two very large elephants look on from the wings. Iran’s position is no doubt as awkward as that of the United States. On one hand the Iranians rejoice at the thought of toppling one of the “moderate” Arabs who supports Israel, who has a strong alliance with the U.S. and who despises their “Islamic” brand. Framing the uprising as such, they hope that the crumbling of the Egyptian regime could open up a floodgate for the Muslim Brotherhood allowing Iran to forge stronger ties across such movements in the region.

On the other hand however, the Iranians shudder at the angry street images that are reminiscent of their own Green uprising in the summer of 2009 and fear the inspiration and renewed momentum that it could bring to a dormant but very real movement.

Time is running out as the protestors get increasingly angry, some asking the U.S. to take a more defined position against Mubarak whose only wining card is to stress his special role as the great stabilizer and “fixer” in the Israel-Palestine conflict. But upon taking a closer look at the power dynamics which have emerged, and as amply clear by the release of the Palestinian Papers, the peace process has long been defunct – duly reduced to a perpetual episodic reality show whose only aim is to sustain the livelihoods of the actors involved through billions in U.S. aid, and to sell a few items during the commercial breaks.

The sole reason for existence of players like the Palestinian Authority and Mubarak is precisely to perpetuate the illusion of a “process” in an orchestrated melodrama where the final act leaves the audience hanging for the next installment. To understand this point is to realize that once the play is resolved, the function of the likes of Mubarak and the PA will be over and the actors will have to go home.

The most interesting and revealing comment yet comes from Israel who is forever boasting of the strength of its own democracy, asserting that it is the only such state in the region. Remarkably, the Israeli Minister interviewed on condition of anonymity expressed his confidence that the Egyptian leader would prevail and said that “the Jewish state has faith in the security apparatus of its most formidable Arab neighbor to suppress the street demonstrations.” He further added, “I’m not sure the time is right for the Arab region to go through democratic process”.

Reading the subtitles on the concerns of all those involved, it makes one wonder — who is really not yet ready for democracy in the region.

Filed Under: Can We Talk?!!, Egypt, Elections, Iran, Middle East and Beyond, Politics, Conflict, Africa, Middle East, Yemen Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Ivory Coast: Sovereignty and the Price of Chocolate

January 1, 2011 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 5 Comments
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A shorter post this time – New Year present to my friend Ahmed who travels regularly from Alexandria, Virginia to Alexandria, Egypt; if only to confirm the obvious realities of globalization and to prove Thomas Friedman’s assertion that the world is indeed flat and crowded, even if not so hot this particular December.

It has been almost a month since the elections in Ivory Coast produced not one – but two presidents – one sworn in ceremoniously, wrapped in a regal sash, gushing in front of cameras at the presidential palace – the other hunkered down at the Golf Hotel where he took the wise precaution to retreat days before the election, just in case his adversary was to get any bright ideas. The French press is calling the latter, President of the Republic of the Golf Hotel on account of not been able to emerge since the results were declared that first week of December. The only thing standing between him and the army are 800 U.N. peacekeepers; each force behind their respective barricades allowing no one in or out, leaving no choice but to airlift food and provisions, not to mention a healthy supply of chocolate for the crepe stand in the lobby of the hotel where the grounds have been transformed into makeshift ministries and cabinet offices.

As incumbent President Gbagbo clings to power in Abidjan with the help of the army and state media, President elect Ouattara continues to consolidate his gains in the international community. The U.S and the French were among the first to recognize him followed by the European Union, the United Nations and the West African economic block – ECOWAS. The IMF and World Bank have withdrawn support and the EU has placed travel restrictions as well as targeted sanctions on Mr. Gbagbo and close circle hoping to make a dent perhaps by denying his two wives and entourage their regular shopping sprees in the left bank boutiques of Paris. Just last week as a final show of no confidence the General Assembly voted 192-0 recognizing Mr. Ouattara as the rightful head of the Ivorian state and sent the resident ambassadorial mission of Mr. Gbagbo packing. They left in a huff, taking all the computer and office equipment as consolation prize. Things can be so simple when states have fields of cocoa instead of oil.

Looking for other means of practical resistance, the West African Central Bank has ceded control of the state funds to Mr. Ouattara in an effort to choke the life line of President Gbagbo who will soon be running on fumes if he does not play ball – preferably in someone else’s country. It will be interesting to see how loyal his ethnically stacked army will be once he runs out of money. History is full of lessons on the urgent merits of keeping armed young men well paid and well fed.

In further attempts to isolate Mr. Gbagbo, the African Union has suspended his membership and regional allies are now considering use of “legitimate force” to remove him. That sounds a lot like military intervention to me.

Some of my African friends shake their heads in disgust and say “pitoyable!” — lamenting the crisis as yet another example of Big Man politics, typical of the sad state of democracy on a continent that has given us the likes of Taylor, Bashir, Bongo and Mobutu. Others – echoing the nationalist refrains of Mr. Gbagbo are denouncing the impasse as yet another proof of foreign meddling in what they see as a sovereign matter. The U.N., the French and all the rest of them should get out, they say — Ivorian solutions for Ivorian problems. How convenient in this case, to be the ones picking and choosing who is a true Ivorian? Moreover; what exactly is it to be “sovereign” if not upheld by peer member states, or mandated by your citizens, half of whom were disqualified in this case.

All this talk of intervention raises the question: in an increasingly global and interdependent world where actions have far reaching consequences often implicating those who had no part in the decisions with enormous financial and social burden, and where world bodies are tasked to pick up the pieces, is the sovereign nation destined to become a relic of the past, to be relegated to text books along with medieval walled cities and moat floating feudal states?

For the world’s largest cocoa producer, accounting for 40% of global supply, if you think that the price of chocolate is the only thing to consider, think again.

In the past month UNHCR has logged almost 20,000 refugees, mostly women and children fleeing the crisis to neighboring Liberia – itself a fragile state newly emerging from conflict and struggling to consolidate its peace dividends. Youth militia loyal to Gbagbo are mobilizing and if the nightly raids, abductions and torture in the opposition neighborhoods of Abidjan are any indication, the country could relapse into large scale violence with considerable human and economic costs spilling into the whole region which relies on this country’s commercial port. Fear of a $30 million interest default has already made the international bond markets jittery.

The last century witnessed the creation of global institutions — the International Criminal Court, the International Court of Justice, the World Trade Organization and the many UN agencies; all supra-national institutions with global mandates, yet subject to sovereign whims of national or personal interests. Consequently — Omar Bashir remains free in spite of the ICC indictments; the West Bank is fast becoming an Israeli colony in spite of the ICJ rulings; the West continues to push for agricultural subsidies that favor their own to the detriment of the poorer nations; and the U.N. in spite of the billions it spends in peacekeeping remains handcuffed by the narrow mandate it is given after the big five settle on the lowest common denominator on the security council.

And yet the stakes are higher than ever as the world is shrinking tighter. Forget the price of chocolate and consider the global financial Tsunami unleashed by the Sub Prime defaults and financial deregulation in the U.S – events that may not have come to pass had international institutions had a vote in the matter.

Better yet — Bush Junior may not have been given a carte blanche, averting two disastrous terms and two costly wars that effectively defeated the empire better than Bin Laden could have ever in his wildest dreams imagined. Palestinians might have had their state long ago; Bashir, Blair and Cheney would be behind bars and eastern Congo would have been taken into receivership by international trustees long ago under the principles of Responsibility to Protect.

So, as the world connects tighter in a knot, sovereignty may be the last sacred cow offered at the altar of the juggernaut of globalization once it is clear that we can’t have our cake and eat it too. In the meantime – as we witness our first test case in challenging sovereign identity in Ivory Coast — for now we may have to settle for cheese instead of chocolate.

Filed Under: Africa, Can We Talk?!!, Cote D'Ivoire, Elections, United_Nations Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Cote D’Ivoire 2010: a tale of two presidents

December 5, 2010 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 2 Comments
Gbagbo!

Three continents, two connections and one day later I finally land at the Abidjan International Airport as an International Observer for the second round of presidential elections between the incumbent Laurent Gbagbo and opposition leader Alessane Ouattara – elections designed to end the decade long civil unrest which effectively split the country over questions of ethnic identity and voting rights. That’s the short version.

The chaos and humidity feels instantly liberating in spite of the disorienting cross continental shifts in time zones and culture. Bold campaign ads run along the sweeping bridges connecting this sprawling coastal city once known as the Paris of Africa, highlighting the political stakes.

A large billboard of a woman in her thirties with a troubled face and only one arm comes into view over and over again as we round the beautiful lagoon and the lush vegetation that sets off the modern skyline in the distance. It says she is a war victim and the caption reads: “Between my baby and my arm, I chose my baby. For Peace I choose Gbagbo” – somewhat manipulative but I get the point.

Ouattara is an economist and ex-Africa Director of the IMF, rallying under a Houphouëtist alliance to evoke the post-independence days of plenty under President Houphouët-Boigny. His main liability is to be born to a Burkinabe mother therefore of questionable Ivorian identity; a point conveniently manipulated by political adversaries to infuse mistrust and create alliances where tribal networks often take the place of democratic institutions and ethnic cleavages are exploited for mobility.

Mathias, my Observation team mate is also from Burkina Faso — laid back, familiar and completely unperturbed by time and protocol, appearing and disappearing as he pleases, making calls in the middle of meetings where the sandal wearing attendees talk over the continuous ring of their own mobiles and calmly ignore the squeaky doors that keep opening and closing.

He chit chats freely and flirts randomly as a matter of sport. He says all Burkinabe’s are like that. Friendly. For the most part it generates a few giggles from the ladies and brings an easy flow to our otherwise rigorous and packed schedule. I wonder if his nationality could pose a problem considering his country is viewed by some as a French proxy supporting Ouattara.

A few nights before the elections I watched a televised debate between the two candidates moderated by a character best described as a cross between Felix the Cat and Larry King in terms of his unusually large head on a small upper body. The incumbent desperately struggled to distance himself from the last decade of violence and economic hardships promising new beginnings; a transformation of national industry of largely cocoa and coffee production, combined with a strong focus on social programs.

Ouattara in contrast presented himself as a modern man; one who is running on a liberal platform bolstered by massive help from the IMF and increased foreign investment. One does not need to be an expert to pick the candidate of choice for the West, but Gbagbo passed up the opportunity to point out his counterpart as a potential agent for further debt and possible foreign influence, instead focusing on Ouatarra’s part in the conflict. Remarkably, the Larry King character resisted any attempt to sensationalize, showing more elegance than his American counterpart — a reminder that the commercial synergies of news and entertainment have yet to be discovered in Africa.

The pre-elections atmosphere is one of intense mistrust, at times bordering on paranoia. Stories circulate that the pens provided at the polling stations are rigged with disappearing ink, effacing the votes for your candidate. How the pen determines where the voter crosses seems irrelevant. After all, Africa is the land of myth and magic where fetishes are omnipresent, ancient tribal chiefs are more important than corporations who would bank roll their favorite candidates; and rebels and machetes are part of the political process.
As we interview the officials at the Local Commission about the elaborate cross check procedures for the final results, the lady president of the center arrives breathless in her long ruffled skirt, whisks us away into her private office and informs us she is being chased by opposition partisans.

“They blocked me at the airport,” she lays out all three of her cells phones, takes out a white handkerchief and delicately dabs the sweat around her neck and chocolate décolleté; “They confiscated the staff salaries I had in the pouch and threatened me with bodily harm.”
“They. who?” Asks Mathias.
“They! The militants. The youth!” Her gold bracelets jingle as she talks.
“How many were they?” I scribble away.
“Beaucoup. Beaucoup.”
“A lot?! Like how many? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She waves away the heat and a couple of mosquitoes. “A lot!” She says with a definitive nod.
“Liar!” Mathias mumbles under his breath as we leave. “What was she doing at the airport with all that money anyway?”

Another official says he has information from a very credible source that one agent in every voting station has been bribed one thousand dollars a day to change the results.

“Who is this source?”
“Well. Madame. I can not say.” He leans back in his plastic chair and smiles cryptically, revealing the yellow buildup of years of bad hygiene around the margins of his teeth that matches the color of the sunflowers on his shirt. “But he is very reliable.”
“Ah oui?” Asks Mathias

Anticipation steadily builds. Candidates and their respective spokesmen issue press releases pretending a veneer of calm, each magnanimously promising to uphold the final results, more likely signaling how the other should behave when he loses. Meanwhile, Mr. Ouatarra and entourage have taken over one wing at my hotel. He startles me as he says “bonsoir Madame,” and passes by in the hallway, then disappears among the guards and the blue helmets. Like any high class hotel de luxe in Africa, The Golf doubles as an opposition hideout and evacuation center on account of its convenient location by the lagoon and coveted helipad. After all, last time there was political unrest Mr. Outattara’s house was burnt down.

One more thing. As a last minute tactic, Mr. Gbagbo declares a curfew in spite of the pleas of the U.N., who rightly insists it would further complicate the logistics. Many wonder whether this is an attempt to short circuit the turnout since the security instruments who would enforce the curfew are also Gbagbo loyalists. What is certain is that the combination of transportation challenges, mistrust and the elaborate manual tabulations means only one thing – delays.

Predictably, on Election Day polls open late. Mathias and I walk past the long lines of voters growing under the large canopies of the avocado trees outside a primary school turned polling station. We sit staring at the sealed box of ballots which is to be opened only in front of the party representatives. They finally arrive after 45 minutes. “Curfew. Taxi problems;” they say sheepishly and squeeze behind their tiny wooden desks.

The polling finally starts: Stickers — registration list – ballots — signature — indelible ink – stamp – all ok.

As the sun rises up in the sky to smolder and burn off the shadows throughout the day, the steady stream of voters mark their candidate of choice in the cardboard isolation booth that stands in a corner. Many come prepared with their own pens and find their suspicions confirmed when Mathias repeatedly tries to talk them into using the “official” ones in the stations. “He is only teasing.” I would smile and say.

As we randomly pick stations, observe the day and mark the scores, we appreciate the depth of the economic crisis in the neglected residential neighborhoods and feel the frustration of those who want to put the last ten years behind them and to once again shine as the star of West Africa. We discuss nuances of identity; listen to the indignant few who claim they have identified neighbors of “questionable” origin and counter with stories of our own to demonstrate that identities do not have to be static if you keep an open mind and extend justice throughout society. At the end, it is the umbrella of the economic system that needs to include and align the interests. Regardless of who wins, it is incumbent upon him to hold out his hand to the vanquished, who must in turn negotiate the limits of his love for his country.

As the polls finally close and the ballot box seals are cut, a heavy set woman in long flowy purple-wear is chosen at our station to read the results. The observers, representatives and agents all take their places as she opens each ballot, patiently reading and holding up the name for all to see. A young girl marks the results in plain view on the blackboard. I don’t see how the supposed undercover agent we were tipped off about by the “credible” informant, could possibly earn his $1,000 keep. If the party representatives moved up any further in their chairs, they would surely keel over.

Gbagbo Laurent……Gbagbo Laurent…..Alessane Ouattara….The girl at the blackboard makes neat little rows of squares and strikes them through in batches of five.

Gbagbo Laurent…..A cell phone ring with a festive African beat breaks the intensity of the room. The purple lady puts down the ballot and waddles over calmly, reaching into her purse.

“Aaaah?”

The various agents, all four party representatives and the two of us hold our positions and wait in silence. What sounds like a single gunshot in the distance momentarily distracts us. We all throw a quizzical glance at each other, shrug and once again fix our gazes back on the lady who is still on the phone.

“I will be late,” she says. “No, I can’t. I am counting votes now.”
She hangs up and waddles back unhurried. No excuses. No sign of impatience from anyone. She picks up where she left off.

Gbagbo Laurent…..more squares continue to fill the rows underneath the two names before the same party music once again breaks our concentration. This time the chief of the bureau gets up and brings over the happy bag. The lady opens it and reaches in elbow deep to produce the bouncing contraption.

“Alo!”
Once again everyone freezes like an old children’s game.
This time she switches into dialect but I understand the word pommes-de-terre; something about potatoes.

“….and the charcoal is where it always is – look in the green basket.”
“You’ve made us all hungry now,” says Mathias as she hangs up.

Everything is relative and urgencies take on a different form depending on the context. Maybe we, in the West could use a little serving of “pomme-de-terre” here and there within our serious institutions.

The little squares rapidly fill up on Gbagbo’s side of the blackboard. But this is Abidjan — the loyalists’ stronghold. The North is sure to be a different story judging by the first round, why else would they need to send reinforcements to “secure” the area.

The lobby at the Golf Hotel is filling up by the hour. All flights have been cancelled and the curfew continues. The results should have been declared, first by last night – then by this morning and now planned again for later release at midnight no doubt for maximum control. Gbagbo is already contesting the results calling foul play in some of the regions and earlier this morning one of his supporters snatched the ballot results in plain view of the cameras as the officials prepared to make an announcement.

A large man is twirling a carved wooden figurine with tresses that swing back and forth every time he rolls it between his palms. He says it is to awaken the powers.

Mr. Ouattara’s spokesman sits at the adjacent table. As one of the main figures of the party walks into the lobby, he is swallowed whole by a circle of journalists and cameras who scramble for a statement. I make my way over and squeeze through.

“I proclaim Mr. Ouattara, the President of the Republic of Ivory Coast.” He says the results leave no doubt. Mr. Gbagbo is contesting the results of four regions in the North, “These regions went to Mr. Ouattara on the first round. We have worked ten years for this moment. It is time for Mr. Gbagbo to leave.”

Gbagbo!

This morning I wake up to two sets of official results.

Independent Electoral Commission:
Gbagbo – 45.9%
Outattara – 54.10%

Constitutional Council:
Gbagbo – 51.45%
Ouattara – 48.55%

Gbagbo is refusing to concede. The head of the Constitutional Council, close to Gbagbo and contrary to the results of the Independent Elections Commission has sided with him, voiding the polls from all the contentious regions in the north. They say it is good to have friends in high places. Gendarmes have broken into the opposition’s headquarters and killed some of the members. Angry riots are breaking out.

As the international community, Obama and Sarkozy extend their congratulations to Ouattara, Gbagbo is asking the United Nations to leave and denounces foreign intrigue behind the support for his rival.

Both men are sworn in as Presidents. So much for reconciliation.

Power is intoxicating – painful to relinquish. For all the patriotic sermons that politicians deliver for public consumption whether in Washington, Tehran or Abidjan, love of country is a worthless currency stamped with the face of its people, bartered and manipulated for a far more tangible asset.

Hold off on making those travel arrangements for the Paris of Africa. The shining star is having electrical problems.

Filed Under: Africa, Can We Talk?!!, Cote D'Ivoire, Elections Tagged With: , , , , , ,

TORA KAGAME!

August 14, 2010 By Firouzeh Afsharnia 4 Comments

Well. The elections have come and gone; and the winner is – (drum roll) – I know… I know…. No surprise.

Independent press, human rights organizations and political activists are all crying foul play, alleging that serious opposition never had a chance. They were either killed, exiled or under house arrest; tens of media outlets were banned during the run up to the elections; a journalist and a human rights lawyer investigating the incidents shot dead or jailed — Other than that, everything was just perfect.

The next day, headline news on The Independent read: “The UK has influence in Rwanda. We should use it.” British government is demanding to know what is going on and David Cameron is urged to withhold UK’s kindly favors until Rwanda’s ruling party faces up to its civil rights obligations. Foreign donors, journalists and activists alike are calling on President Obama to bring pressure on Rwanda for democratic change and to lean on Kagame to make him more accountable.

Judging by the 97% registered voter turnout who started lining up before dawn to hand Kagame another seven-year mandate, it appears that those who need to hold him accountable have already spoken.

Hence, Kagame’s response to his critics and the international community was that they should mind their own business and “not tell us how to shape our country.”  As for me — I thought how ironic that the same folks who criticize the constant meddling of foreign patrons in the developing world are so quick to jump in and ask for intervention at the first sign of trouble.

“TORA KAGAME — IMVUGO NYO NGIRO” the signs read – on T-shirts, on shiny billboards, on banners … I asked Clementine, my Rwandan friend what they meant as the bus rattled through downtown Kigali, in full campaign swing on our last day.

“Choose Kagame!”  She said. “What he says, is what he does.”

“Where are the others?”  I asked referring to the opposition slogans.

“Oh, they are around – somewhere — I will show you when I see one.”  She never spotted one. Not that it bothered me.  Having lived over thirty years in the West I have considerably toned down my own idealistic take on Democracy and no longer see it as an essential building block to progress.  In fact, I confess at times I wish for a benevolent dictator myself as I see Democrats and Republicans banter endlessly about the obvious, touting American democratic values even as they discuss the merits of “enhanced” interrogation techniques and ponder whether an enemy combatant merits the same fundamental rights granted by the Geneva Convention as a human being in uniform.  Yes; we in the US also muzzle dissent, suspend civil liberties when it suits our purpose and stomp on human rights when we feel justified.   We do it by carefully framing our position in a controlled and corporate owned mainstream media; we do it by extraditing violators to offshore territories; we do it by scaring our constituents and buying off our representatives into passing new laws with loopholes big enough to stuff our agenda through.

It is all done in the interest of “national security”.  So the question is — what is in the interest of Rwanda’s National Security?

The 1994 Genocide was not a single event.  It came as a culmination of uprisings and aggressions by a Hutu majority against the Tutsi minority –  in 1959, 1963, 1964, 1973, 1974 and through to the early 90s hundreds of thousands of Tutsis were massacred or forced into exile in neighboring countries.   This majority is still in effect.  It is not inconceivable that premature openings without tackling the radicalized atmosphere of race could once again shift the centre of gravity towards its natural demographic comfort zone.

Secondly, it is common knowledge that the media had a crucial role in the propagation of hate ideology and the orchestration of the Genocide machinery.  Radio Rwanda, Radio Television Libre des Mille Collines, Kangura newspaper and other print media played the lead in the run up to the massacres in disseminating targeted messages designed to eradicate the Tutsi “problem” once and for all. After the genocide, the same outlets resumed operation across the Zairian border in militarized camps of over a million refugees, where the genociders and Hutu extremists among them regrouped and mobilized to conduct cross border raids into Rwanda. Thousands still remain armed and dangerous in the Eastern Congo, harboring dreams of reclaiming their Hutu homeland.

Lastly, the role of intra ethnic factors is a constant reality in African politics.  Throughout the post colonial decades of emerging states, even as state politicians have relied on ethnic allegiances and patronage to rise to power, they have seen their most imminent threats coming from within their own rank and file by way of coup d’états and assassinations — the promotional path of choice, should one desire a career in politics in Africa.  The internal fractures within the inner circle have been forming. The renegade General Nkunda who was finally reeled in through a joint operation with DRC; the unfortunate VP of the Democratic Green Party who was found dead with his head severed, and the estranged General Nyamwasa who fled to South Africa after being accused of plotting a coup were all once prominent RPF members and as such, now in the unenviable position of being targets without the protection of their own base.

The assassination attempt in Johannesburg could more likely be credited to extremists sworn to avenge the blood of their Hutu brothers. A simple internet search on opposition sites yields links to articles captioned: “The Slaughter of Hutu Refugees in DRC”; “The Humanitarian Horror of Hutu Refugees in DRC” and “A Story of how Rwanda Manufactures Genocide and Exports it to Hunt Intellectual Hutu Refugees in USA and the UK”.  Sites are also flooded with threats against high ranking RPF members, promising to exact a painful revenge for crimes committed – among them, General Nyamwasa.

There is no question Kigali is clamping down on opposition, but the road map of the intrigue points to a fracture within the RPF ranks and a struggle for Hutu supremacy rather than to widespread grievances of a poor and marginalized mass.

“Tutsi mothers beat their children from the first day they cry.”  A Congolese friend once told me. “That is why they are so cold blooded.   Their humanity is crushed at childhood.”

“There was no genocide.” A Hutu colleague explained. “Every Rwandan has a machete at home.” He explained. “When the plane was shot down in 1994 there was chaos and things got out of hand.”   Incidentally, the other side is convinced that the RPF was behind the shooting down of the plane in 1994.

“When the RPF finally won the war and marched into Kigali, everybody went out to watch.” Clementine was just eight at the time. “We had been told they were not human, so we wanted to see for ourselves whether they had tails.”

These are anecdotal encounters but they reflects what simmers underneath among a generation that lived through the genocide and was marked by it.  In spite of state mandates and reconciliation courts, the hard etchings of resentments and divisions still persist in some circles.

“We all know who is who and what happened.” I am told over and over again after the initial feel good tourist spiel is delivered.

In spite of all the good intentions, a democratic opening a la West may well back fire. Kagame walks a precarious tightrope, balancing his long term national interests on the fine line that divides the ethnic and historical realities of his country while preventing new resentments from forming into a time bomb. Taking an inclusive stance toward peaceful opposition like Frank Habineza of the DGP who has publicly committed to non-violence could help him.

At the end, the jury is still out as to who shot the plane and how much of the conspiracy theory can be credited.  Was the RPF victory the result of a colonial Hutu – Tutsi struggle; or was it a neo imperialist battle for hegemony in a strategic resource rich territory between the Francophonie and Anglo axis. For the time being regardless of how Kagame came to power he is intent on asserting his sovereignty while pursuing a strong development agenda albeit at the expense of political freedoms.  Some say the policy creates resentment and violates democratic principles. Many more agree that it is a small price to pay.

I am inclined to think that if the international community turned its back during the worst time of need, it has no right now to make demands and declarations at a time Rwanda’s independently acquired peace and stability is consolidating into social and economic gains.  Conversely, if it is with the support of the West that Kagame sits where he does, we have made this bed ourselves.  We had best let him sleep in it for now.

Filed Under: Africa, Can We Talk?!!, Congo, Elections, Rwanda Tagged With: , , , , ,
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