AN ESSAY FROM AMERICA

By Mathew K. Jallow

The inspiration to write “An Essay from America” came to me early morning as I lay in bed, awake but still groggy. Like any good idea, it seems too good to pass up.  I had no alternative.  I plunged into it.  That morning as I was shaping my thoughts in my mind, I had a phone call. The voice on the other end, of Ebrima G. Sankareh, alerted me to a story in the Foroyaa Newspaper about a certain Captain Bunja Darboe. The voice narrated a horror story of torture and emasculation.  I soon logged on to the Internet, and after browsing briefly, I read the story in its entirety.  Instinctively I cupped my left hand, dropped my chin into it and gave myself a well-deserved moment of reflection.  Slowly, a range of emotions clouded my mind:  anger, frustration, and exasperation. You name it I felt it. Yet, I knew this was not a time to feel sorry for us.  We were at war, at war with Jammeh for the soul of our country. Not unlike many of our fellow citizens, I fight my battles in my own unique way, with the mighty pen as my weapon of choice, yet if need be, I am prepared to sling an AK- 47 riffle over my head and wrap myself in a belt of bullets; all the love for my country.  After all, every citizen is a soldier, or better still, should be one. Who can argue with that? I do not know Bunja Darboe, but the accounts of his torture and dehumanizing treatment, touching as it is, almost drew me to tears.  That such horror was happening in The Gambia was beyond my comprehension, however, Bunja's horrible experience was by no means an isolated incident.  It is an all too common occurrence.  In this bloody war of ours, we are all soldiers on the front where the battle lines are everywhere.  And as we mourn our dead, we also wonder aloud what happened to all those who just vanished from the face of the earth.  Someone out there knows and we want answers; we demand answers.  Today, ours is a country that is bleeding even as it struggles to cling to life.  Across the globe from Sidney, Australia to Anchorage, Alaska, Gambians stand united by a common rejection of a government that has done so much damage to our image and our reputation.  We are a nation that has lost its innocence, just as it is gripped by fear and terrorized by its own sons and daughters.  For the thirty years I have lived under a Jawara government, no one ever had to whisper his name out of fear.  In contrast, Yahya Jammeh reminds me of my travels to Benin; Mathieu Kerekou's Benin.  On a tour of the capital Cotonue, our guides warned us not to point fingers towards the Presidential Place. Besides, no one dared to criticize President Kerekou out of fear they may be made to disappear from the face of the earth. Back home, terrified people stand to attention and wave when Jammeh's motorcade speeds past them.  They struggle to catch a glimpse of Jammeh, and pat themselves on the back when they think they caught his attention.  It is not cult worship yet, but it is getting there.  Mathieu Kerekou and Yahya Jammeh, two individuals from two different countries, and two different generations sharing the same vision.  Mathieu Kerekou survived, but can Yahya Jammeh be as lucky?  Talking about luck, it is a miracle of circumstance that more people have not died in our jails even though we have no idea how many have died at the hands of Jammeh’s government.  There are wild guests, because many who have lost loved ones are too fearful to demand answers. But, as more people continue to die or be maimed, they become mere statistics in Jammeh's crazy orgy of death and destruction.  There is always someone for Jammeh to torture and kill, for there is always someone for him to fear and hate. For many people, the fear of being caught in Jammeh’s widening dragnet has caused them to flee our homeland, while many who live abroad are afraid of going home, believing that they may become part of the death statistics that has tainted our good name.  But, as the rank of the dissidents swell, so does the number of Gambians seeking asylum in the safety of friendly countries across the globe. Yet, even as we scatter to every corner of the world, our hearts are anchored there where we were born, where we call home, and where we have our roots.  For many of us, The Gambia is so close, yet so far away and we would give our limbs for a chance to go home. Did I say home? From thousands of miles away, my memory of home always takes me back to my childhood as I stood on the edge of the towering hills overlooking my village.  Perched on the hill, I watched as our cattle grazed leisurely below. In the distance towards where the River Gambia meandered lazily, the trees swayed and the birds flew homebound towards the setting sun.

Yes, nostalgia for what I knew and left home, and nostalgia for a childhood long gone, and never to return.  Everyday the pain of being separated from my family gnaws into my soul. Everyday, I wish I could come home and see what is left of the Bathurst of my childhood.  I think of Horst Street of Dobson Street, Ingram Street and Lasso Wharf: the story of a country boy who fell in love with the city.  We can hardly recognize Bathurst now, for Banjul is changing or better still Jammeh has changed the character and the romantic aura of Banjul. But, I still fondly remember names from way back; names like Baby Rene, my club mate at Santa Maria Boys Club, and dear old Serere boy, Baboucarr Njie, a boyhood friend at Primet Street “Vous”.  These are two of many names that come to mind and they represent the best of times of our country way back then.  Today, we live in a dark period and we talk of unmarked graves and unknown tombs and a fear so pervasive it is paralyzing our ability to live normal lives.  Yes, Banjul has changed profoundly, but not for the better and Yahya Jammeh is making sure that. As we now struggle for a new identity for our country, here are six words for Yahya Jammeh. You are a coward, bloody coward.  How dare you turn our streets into rivers of blood? As you descend into the worst of the human specimen, you carve your name in blood on the foreheads of those you reduce into your slaves. Because of you, sympathy and empathy are increasingly becoming unworthy values and virtues in our land. You take away our common voice and reduce us into puppets, unable or too afraid to speak or think for ourselves. And somewhere in the hills and flat lands that extend from Barra to Sutukoba, and from Banjul to Koina, you have hidden the skeletons of those who left behind mothers, daughters, fathers and sons; young men whose time to die was not now, young men with so much to live for. Speaking of time, last night as I watched a Fula wedding from Basse on DVD, I saw many faces I recognized from years back. There were the Fula fiddlers who made me shake in appreciation, women dancing, children running about, the laughter and the merriment and all, but what caught my attention were images of M.C.Cham in the house, Assan Musa Camara, Omar Sey, Fisco Conateh and Babou Ceesay. M.C. Cham ebullient as always, his handsome looks fading, but no longer condescending or arrogant, and looking frail and weak. In the background, Omar Sey and Assan Musa, all gray, but a lot smaller than their former towering hulks. And hunched in the foreground, Fisco Conateh, good old Fisco, the man who gave so much, and asked for nothing in return. A second look at these gentlemen aging gracefully made me realize the roles some of them played in building a stable, if somewhat unequal society. But, the resignation in their demeanor told a story all its own. They seemed to say that their work is done or almost done, and the baton was being passed to a new generation. The stability that they helped to build was being shaken to its very foundation as Yahya Jammeh goes on a rampage shattering hopes and dreams in his wake. Everything Jammeh has done has fractured our society and turned us against each other, much as George Bush has done here in the U.S. Yahya Jammeh sees each political dissent as a deadly threat that must be eliminated with deadly force. The prisons and jails have become the answer for all and every real or perceived danger, as these houses of horror teem with fellow citizens for whom the law has failed to work. There are also those tried by our Kangaroo courts for whom years behind bars make a mockery of our justice system and our country. For loving his country and vowing to make everyone work for what they earn, Sana B. Sabally became one of the first casualties of Jammeh’s sinister machinations. Jammeh became Sabally’s traitor, and he has since not stopped betraying everyone who rotates within his orbit of influence. Luckily, there are still a few good men who seem to know what they are doing to stop a Jammeh meltdown. From what we are seeing so far, Pa Jallow seems to be on the right track. I am neither a cynic nor a pessimist, but given Jammeh’s history of distrusting those he pulls close to himself, how long Mr. Jallow’s good work will last is a matter of conjecture. So far so good, but Mr. Jallow’s task of correcting all the wrongs of the NIA is not nearly enough. There must be a review board to look into the ways and manner citizens have been sent to prison. Your work has just begun, Mr. Jallow, yet we are encouraged and hopeful that everyone except the common criminals will be released from our dungeons. We must begin to heal some deep wounds caused by this government. Part of the healing process must include Jammeh’s departure. We are ready to take back our country. Together, we can make this Jammeh’s last show. And it would be about time. Let us say good riddance to the ugly clown Yahya Jammeh.