grace.kindness.peace.disruption.pain.processing.rinse.repeat.have a nice day.

We poda poda’d to the Hastings amputee camp. On the ride out, before I dozed off, Pastor Felix gave me a brief overview of what would happen at the camp. For the ambient noise I could only make out part of what he said, but I did hear on thing in particular that I feared he might say; we would be asked to say a word of encouragement to the amputees. “A word of encouragement?,” I thought. I was thankful to hear of the upcoming task; Micah had been blindsided with the request the first time he visited a camp several weeks ago. At least for my first visit I had fair warning. But, just what could I say to encourage? If I had a week to prepare I would have still come with the blank slate I carried. I did not know what to expect, what I would encounter, how I would react, or how they would react. I leaned forward quietly and dozed off, hoping that somehow our visit would run long and we would not have the time to share whatever sorry, unqualified bit of encouragement that would have to be made up on the spot.

We arrived what I think was about 30-45 minutes after we boarded – not bad for $0.33 per person. Pastor Felix bought a few meat kabobs on the side of the road and he ate them as we walked to the camp. He explained that we were on a fact-finding trip only to hear of the conditions of the camp and the needs of its inhabitants. We would promise them nothing, as IMC (Pastor Felix’s employer) would partner with other organizations to fulfill any needs; he could not ensure that anything would come, but he would be an advocate for them.

As we entered the camp we were instantly the center of attention. No one got up, but everyone’s eyes were on us. Such attention was nothing new to us in our ninth week as an obvious minority, but there was something slightly different about their stares, something more piercing. There was no hustle-and-bustle of city life to draw away their eyes. We were their only entertainment.

Pastor Felix led us to the house of the camp chairmen who assembled the six camp elders. The men ranged in age, at a guess, from thirty-five to fifty-five, although the hardships of their years may make such a guess too high. One elder, a double hand amputee, brought chairs for us to sit on the small front porch of the house opposite the chairman’s. Humbled by this gesture, we sat as most of the men sat on the half wall of the porch.

The moment seemed pregnant with thoughts, expectations, and questions, even as everyone was silent. I still did not know what to expect. Would they beg us for money, not knowing we did not have much to offer that day? Would they berate us for the inaction of our nation, the most powerful in the world and the largest consumer of the diamonds stolen from their beautiful country during their ten-year civil war? Would they ask us how we could let the diamonds stolen from their country fuel the war machine of the rebels that took their limbs, even as the stones were set to adorn the ring fingers of millions of beloved in the West? (Side note: Not to mention the diamonds were also purchased by Al-Queda through Charles Taylor’s corrupt Liberian government who helped both the rebels in Sierra Leone and Al-Queda launder money before 9-11). Would they be silent? Which would be worse?

Pastor Felix opened the discussion in prayer and then explained the fact-finding nature of our visit. He repeated that Micah and I would be sharing at the end. My hope of getting out as a silent observer would not come to pass. The men then began to passionately share their needs and concerns. The first man, and older gentleman perhaps in his mid-fifties missing both arms just below the elbow and a few teeth, began. Just a few moments earlier we had shaken his appendage as a welcoming gesture. The act was unsettling, but I was humbled by their humility and honored to be the recipient of a shake, whether it was a hand or not. The man began diplomatically in broken English. “We are not politicians,” he said more than once in an appeal for help. They could not address their government or work the system to make its work for them. On the contrary, the government has seemingly placed such camps far away from the city in an attempt to push memories of the war and its atrocities out of peoples’ minds. As the man continued, his requests did not focus on himself or the other adults; rather his primary concern was for their children. They did not have enough money to eat as much as was desired, let alone have enough to send their children to school. He passionately denounced the current president for not providing for victims of the war, and for raping the country of a vast number of natural resources along with other politicians for their own benefit. The upcoming election would see a change in government this man was sure. He highlighted the point by waving his arms. He had finished for now.

The next man, younger than the first and a single hand amputee, then began. He apologized for not speaking English. We told him to think nothing of it and we should do our best to understand his Krio. He was more jaded in his tone, still angry for the loss of his hand and seemingly ashamed of its loss. Micah pointed out to me later that the man continually tried to conceal his stump, either by clutching it in his hand or by putting it in his pocket.

As he spoke, I understood less than I would have liked. He spoke to Pastor Felix, unlike the first man who had spoken directly to me. I was relieved to slip back into the crowd, away from the center of attention. His passionate story, I believe, must have concerned justice for those who had taken his limb. What he wanted to do, I did not understand. Pastor Felix responded with a story of another Sierra Leonean that got in a taxi once to discover the driver was the very man that had amputated his hand. The passenger reminded the driver of his identity and his war crime. The driver sat silent as the passenger exited the car. The passenger reported to driver to the Special Court set up to handle war crimes.

Pastor Felix told the story as an example of the right action to take. The men of the camp knew the passenger in the story. The man to whom the story had been directed sat silent, accepting the story, but apparently not satisfied with the speed of justice.

After he finished, the first man spoke again, and again spoke fiercely for a change in government, justice for victims of the war, and opportunities for his children. His eyes locked with mine as he spoke. One of the other elders began speaking to Pastor Felix, about what I do not know. My eyes could not break the connection with those of the first man. He continued talking, seemingly to me alone for he never broke eye contact. He told me of his two daughters in the camp and of his two sons that had been gunned down in front of his eyes on April 6th, 1993. Soon after his sons were dead the rebels cut off his hands. Tears had welled up in his eyes. We sat there silently looking at each other. I wanted to put my hand on his knee or shoulder to show him my heart broke for him, but he was just out of reach. A few more seconds passed and he broke eye contact to compose himself. I felt a sense of relief as I again blended into the crowd. I wish there was something I could have said to console the man, to show my sympathy. I do not believe any such words could have been strung together to bridge the cultural, economic, and life experience canyon between us to convey what my heart desired. Silence was best. I only hope the expression on my face and concern in my eyes conveyed my sympathy for him.

Fresh in the wake of not being able to find words to express myself, Pastor Felix informed all that Micah and I would now share a word of encouragement. As Micah had such an experience once before, I looked at him in such a way to inform that he would indeed be going first. He obliged and continued to thank the man for sharing and to briefly describe what we are doing with WMF in town. Out of jealousy I thought, “Oh great, you take the easy stuff.” I prayed for words to say that truly might encourage these men. Suddenly, all eyes were on me. I echoed Micah’s gratitude for their welcoming us and for sharing their stories with us. I went for a laugh as I complimented the beauty of their “pikin den” (children). They chuckled at my use of Krio. I looked behind them at the lush mountains in the distance and complimented them on their beautiful country. Indeed it was rich with beauty, animals, minerals, and diamonds. As I looked back at them I was struck by their strength. Life was not easy for anyone here, let alone these men, and it never would be. These men were living testimonies to the strength of the people of Sierra Leone. This is what I told them as an encouragement. By the look on their faces I believe it did. I hope it did.

Our time with the elders was over. We shook whatever was offered to us, hand or forearm. In the confusion to shake everyone’s hand, I extended my right hand to the jaded man who only had a left hand. He did not budge. I humbly moved on, thinking he was upset by our meeting. Only when I saw him shaking Micah’s left hand did I realize my folly.

The ride back to Freetown was long and silent. I’m still not sure what to make of my time with the camp elders. The more I thought about what I had said, the more I believed it. The words had come to me at the last minute, but I could not have prepared anything better. They were the best examples of the strength of a strong people. Life would never be easy for them. Their fight to live, to redefine normal, to love God, and to love and support their families proves them stronger than people like me that too often take the blessing of four limbs for granted.