Yay home!

My strongest reaction now that I'm back home: overwhelming appreciation for all my privileges in Canada. I'm so happy to take full advantage of the comforts of home . . .

After 6 months of restricted choice, restricted freedom of speech, and restricted space (no more bush taxis rides while sitting on one ass-cheek with goats and roosters packed to the roof, yay!), I'm thrilled to enter a world that seems so full of possibilities again. Well, I do miss the street food . . .

Trust issues

I'm sad and frustrated. With the recent events a lot of information and feelings have bubbled to the surface and I am having a really hard time accepting it all.

Remember when I wrote an email talking about how the poverty here doesn't strike me as devastating? Well, I was wrong, sort of. It's the oppression that's incredibly devastating.

I think I've only recently begun to understand (well, actually 'feel') the real effect of oppression of the people here and it makes my stomach churn. I asked Steven a few weeks ago if he had someone, like a friend or family, with whom he could talk to openly about his problems, his fears, his thoughts. He pondered over the question for a while and then answered with a definitive 'no'. I thought maybe he misunderstood my question and explained again. He said, "no, there isn't anyone I can really trust--even in my family. Maybe one day once I marry, I'll
be able to talk to my wife about my thoughts and real feelings."

Tete and Dieudo are Sylvain's the best friends. Tete, Dieudo (both Togolese), and Sylvain (French) have been hanging out pretty much every day since Sylvain got here 8 months ago. This past weekend, I asked Tete if he trusted Dieudo. He answerd, "no, and if you asked him the same about me, he would answer 'no' as well."
I asked, "do you trust Sylvain?"
He said, "well, yes."
I said, "why do you trust Sylain and not Dieudo, even though you guys are all best friends?"
Tete, "well, it's different with Sylvain. Sylvain is not African. Dieudo is Togolese."
He went on to explain that since childhood, people here learn that everyone will take advantage of you if they can benefit from it in some way. Hence, it's important to trust no-one.

My host parents explained to me that underneath this big blanket of Togolese solidarity, it's a reality of mistrust. Because everyone has so little, they will do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means cheating others. When it comes to money, it's basically guaranteed that your best friend of 5 years will turn his/er back on you. The regime takes full advantage of the poverty and will pay large sums of money to anyone who can identify an opposition member.

I need time to think about all this . . .

Feeling oppressed

Well, Faurre announced that he wants to talk to the opposition and hold free, democratic elections. To the people here, this is old news. Eyadema has pulled this tactic many times in the past: the opposition will boycott the election because it's a foregone conclusion and the military dictatorship will be 're-elected'. The broken record will continue to sound like this: EU will impose sanctions again; the regime will continue to milk Togo's tiny economy and live like fat cats, and the population will suffer worse poverty than before. UNLESS, the international community takes some action for a change and prevents history from repeating itself.

Here's something interesting: because of the war in Ivory Coast, the French already have moved a large portion of their military base to Lome long before Eyadema's death. Given this fact and France's opposition, Faurre would still have had the balls to commit a coup d'etat while the French navy is in town? And, France is denouncing the coup d'etat especially since Chirac is basically Eyadema's bosom buddy? Fourre is just continuing the Eyadema legacy that the French have propped up over the past 38 years, so why is France suddenly giving up their dirt cheap phosphate and coffee? It's all very touching, but I'm not sure who they're trying to fool. Aside from international attention, I wonder what else motivates France's benevolence in this situation.

In the mean time, the regime has cut off Radio France Internationale, accusing them of trying to cause an uprising. The school director who closed the elementary school in response to the "Journee Togo mort" was arrested today. I'm seeing more soldiers walk around than usual, in their green uniforms and machine guns. The morale is low among the people. Everyone wonders what all the talk from the EU, AU, and ECOWAS is really going to amount to. Without protection, the population cannot truly voice their opinion. Arrests and disappearances are too much a reality.

I can feel that people here are frustrated and hopeful at the same time. Frustrated that they don't have the means to fight for themselves and hopeful that the international community will actually do something this time. At the moment, though, frustration is overshadowing hope. Being here, I get a tiny sense of what it feels like to be oppressed. It's feels like you want to scream at the top of your lungs because you're so angry and frustrated, but you have to hold it in. I'm sure the Togolese feel much more, but we might never know because they have to hold it in.

I hear that there are protests in Ottawa in front of the Togolese embassy right now.

Togo Dictator Dies

I'm still shocked that after 38 years in power, Eyadema dies when I'm in Togo. It's all very exciting and I feel like I'm in the middle of a political science text book. So, here is the situation on the ground.

Kpalime is calm and it's business as usual. Every household has its ears glued to the radio, waiting for further developments. On Saturday night, my host father calls everyone into the living room where the Togolese anthem and flag appeared on the TV screen. Shortly thereafter, a news announcer comes on and explains that the beloved, wonderful President of the country passed away this morning. Immediately they cut to a scene where the president's son, Faurre Gnassingbe, shakes hands with all the military chiefs and commanders while a voice-over explains that this is now the new president who honours his relations with the military commanders. No explanation of the nature of the death and no explanation on how or why this son (out of over 50 children) was chosen. No further information period. During this time, the telephone lines were cut, Radio France International (the only reliable news source here) was not accessible, the borders were closed, and all flights were grounded.

The reaction of most people in town seems to be holding their breath and waiting for something to change. Togo seems to be a country full of waiting. The attitude of the people, no matter how frustrated they are with the military dictatorship, is to wait for better days. The phrase "ca va aller" defines the passive attitude of the population. They've been waiting for 38 years and now that it looks like that history is about to repeat itself, they continue to wait. But what are they supposed to do? How does an unarmed population pit itself against a military regime? The young and educated are frustrated and admire the people in Cote Ivoire for their resolve to action. They are frustrated watching this possible window of opportunity pass as another Eyadema takes power illegally and by force. They cannot imagine another 38 years of the same shit, but cannot think of anyway to help the situation themselves. Fear is paralysing.

In terms of atmosphere, there is general peace and calm in the city. But, who knows what the tension and frustration is like inside the four walls of each house. The people have lived in fear for so long that protecting their own skin is second nature (in the past, bodies of regime haters have been found floating in the Lome lagoon). So, talking openly about their views on politics is next to non-existent. Eyadema's death is not going to change this silence over night. The people that are informed about the situation are educated and live in cities. With RFI being the only radio station that reports "the facts" on the coup, most villagers, who do not speak French will only hear what's broadcasted by the regime organs. Yesterday, I went North into the rainforest with a few friends. The teenagers from the small village nearby had no idea that Eyadema died and seemed indifferent about the news.

On the way we met a couple of Togolese factory workers from Lome, the capital, who are extending their holiday in Kpalime because of the political developments. They say that there were demonstrations held in Lome and thought it wiser to stay away until things calmed down. Their precaution may be unwarranted since my friends in Lome say that things are calm in the capital and have not heard or seen any demonstrations. The Togolese are peace-loving people and without arms they dare not stage any opposition.

In any case, it was all a bit surreal to be in this gorgeous rain forest while this crisis was going on in the country. The waterfall was picturesque with climbing purple flowers on both sides, a small opening hidden deep in the woods. There were swarms of butterflies that surrounded us when we sat on the giant rock with our feet dangling in the small pool of water at the base of the waterfall. The air smelled wet and sweet. When it started to rain in the rain forest (yes, that's right), our guide asked if anyone had a knife. I imagined that he was going to start blazing a fancy new trail as I handed him my Swiss army knife (obviously I was caught up in some jungle fantasy). Instead, he cut off giant banana leafs for everyone to use as umbrellas. So the day after Eyadema died, I was trekking through the rocky, narrow path of the rain forest holding a banana leaf over my head in the middle of a thunderstorm. As always, the contrast of this country leaves me awestruck.

Togo: One bum-cheek only!

I went for a run at 5:30 am the other day and it was still pitch black outside. I was feeling just a tad unhealthy after finding out that I had gained about 10 pounds since I got here (unfortunately, we have a scale sitting here at Vivre Mieux . . . to weigh patients . . . and I'm worrying about my weight . . . sigh). As I was running on the lone paved road leading into the mountains, the sun rose and there was a fine mist hanging over the low-growth shrubs and trees. The air was so humid it was basically wet and I was enjoying the cool breeze. Three months ago, the thought "holy #$%, I'm in Africa" would have popped into my head. But, that morning, it didn't. Remind me, please, what does Canada look and feel like again?

I am still learning new things everyday, though. For example, I learned how to ride a motorcycle a few weeks ago. (Don't worry mom, it went well.) And this past weekend, I learned never to take a bush taxi that has a bunch of merchants in it. The bush taxi's roof was fully loaded with sacks of maize that kept on leaking grains the whole ride, so we had to stop about 10 million times to re-fasten the sacks. Inside this bush taxi (size of a mini van, a really old and dirty van), the women were hugging giant open basins full of this red liquid, oily sauce with pieces of fat floating in it--I was very amazed that this didn't spill on anyone during this 3-hour trip. Oh also, there was this tailor with his sewing machine and sewing table, too. In addition to the 10 million times we stopped to refasten the maize, the driver was also sweet enough to drive off the road to each vendor's market stand to unload their maize/sewing table/vats of sauce. So, basically, a trip that takes 1.5 hours (without stopping) to cover 125km, took twice as long. And all this with the luggage and 15 people stuffed into a 7-person van. Gotta love this sort of bush taxi ride while sharing a seat with another person and sitting on one bum-cheek the whole time.