Hope amid hopelessness

Katherine "Katie" FitzGerald of Watertown is an adjunct professor of philosophy at Jefferson Community College. She has a bachelor of arts degree in theology from Boston College, Chestnut Hill, Mass., and a master of arts degree in theology from Emory University, Atlanta. She is currently working on a master of arts in philosophy from California State University. Ms. FitzGerald has two sons, Stephen and Christopher Mickle. She is the daughter of Connie FitzGerald and the late Dr. James FitzGerald, Watertown.

Greetings from Sierra Leone, West Africa! How did you sleep? How is your health? How is the atmosphere (or, is the weather to your liking)?

In Sierra Leone, greetings are integral to everyday life, and the standard three questions invariably set the agenda. Because Sierra Leoneans appear morally bound to respond to them in the form of detailed truths, greetings can take some time.

Time may be lost, but the detailed truths lend an interesting authenticity to every encounter. One departs having gained the sense that one has walked in the shoes or, more accurately, the bare feet or bare foot of another. (Amputees are prevalent here, lingering reminders of how machetes acted as the "weapons of mass destruction" during the 10-year civil war of 1991-2001).

I arrived in Sierra Leone on Jan. 23. Nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me — nor could have prepared me — for what I have encountered here.

To refer to what I am experiencing as "culture shock" would imply that I've cognitively measured the familiar against the unfamiliar, arriving upon some stark and disconcerting differences.

Instead, however, a survival-induced mental paralysis envelops me. Because I am so utterly stunned by what I see and hear, I experience Sierra Leone instinctively, from a gut perspective. A sturdy gut does not make comparisons, nor is it sensitive to differences. It digests, regardless of the exotic nature of its contents.

I am in what the United Nations' Index on Human Development (2008) calls the poorest and most deprived country on the face of the Earth.

Neither the statistic nor one's imagination triggered by the statistic has the ability to even remotely describe or fabricate the conditions in Sierra Leone. If you are here, however, you clearly know its predicament because no one escapes it.

In Sierra Leone, everyone — citizens, relief workers, humanitarian agents, international business and government officials, journalists and volunteers — lives as refugees.

There are modest gradations in terms of the roof over your head, but there are none in terms of amenities.

Everyone is subject to no electricity, no running water, wells that consistently run dry, infuriatingly obstinate generators, a profound scarcity of food (due to antiquated agricultural methods), an asphyxiating air quality (a mix of desert sand, red dust and the smoke and debris from incessant fires used for cooking, waste management and agricultural objectives), a deafening level of noise (the kind that erupts when an entire civilization takes to living and functioning outdoors), and a general aura that can only be described as the kind that forms when human trauma is the norm.

Much of the written material on Sierra Leone alleges that it is in the midst of "recovering" from its civil war.

"Recovering" implies some level of progress. The reality, however, is that efforts toward progress are consistently contaminated by so many antithetical and evil forces, coming from every conceivable direction, wreaking such logistical and mind-boggling havoc that it is wiser and safer to endure them than to risk the chaos that erupts from attempts to defeat them.

The main objective of recovery involves rebuilding Sierra Leone's infrastructure — electricity, running water and paved roads. It has had seven years to materialize in some form. Yet today there are few, if any, substantive indicators of progress. Part of the complicated problem is that Sierra Leoneans are idealists, not realists.

There is nothing more beautiful than the idealistic thoughts and feelings expressed in the speech (English, accentuated by numerous tribal dialects) of Sierra Leoneans.

Though the ugly and distressing circumstances of their existence occupy the preponderance of their speech, they have, over the centuries, cultivated an alluring and dazzling form of social communication. Their mode of expression is enormously spirited. They are experts at conceptualizing and articulating ideas. The breadth of their vocabularies is stunning! Virtually no subject or discipline is unfamiliar or uninteresting to them.

In a land of mass illiteracy and relentless prose, Sierra Leoneans are brilliant intellectuals and poets.

Sigmund Freud wrote, "Men are strong as long as they represent a strong idea." However, Sierra Leoneans consistently fail to "represent" — bring forth, realize, implement, display — their ideas. They cannot seem to find their way from the theoretical to the practical.

In Sierra Leone, moving, beautiful and lofty ideas rarely morph into tangible solutions. The people are experts at envisioning progress, not accomplishing it.

The civil war has ended, but there is a new and, in many ways, more complex war being waged between exquisite idealism and rampant corruption.

Unfortunately, idealism is pacifist by nature, while corruption is militant. Sierra Leone remains a combat zone where fallen ideals have traded places with the bodies and appendages that once littered the battlefield. Corruption, now, is the weapon of mass destruction.

The magnitude of corruption in Sierra Leone is obscene! It is so prevalent in local and national governments, institutions, organizations, businesses and industries (most notably, in the diamond industry), that it has altogether prevented Sierra Leone from meriting even a semiserious role in global politics or its economy.

For example, among the country's economic ambitions is the desire to attract the world to its pristine coastal beaches. But efforts to form partnerships with various European countries to acquire tourism expertise cannot get off the ground. After all, who wants to work (or play) with gangsters?

Mistrust and fear set the tone here, and frustration over the inability of elected officials (many of whom are corrupt) to eradicate the corruption is widespread and deep.

The corruption in Sierra Leone is the kind that results when too many human beings are focused on holding on to humanity, while failing to ennoble it.

Under normal circumstances, it is the job of culture to provide its individuals with values to live by. But in Sierra Leone, the social machinery is flawed and destructive, and far too many Sierra Leoneans cannot muster the courage and conscience to go it alone. They do not see that when a society fails, the self must stand alone and become its own hero.

If there is a hero here, it is the Catholic Church. For several decades, the church has made significant advancements in the areas of health, education and evangelization. It leads a variety of efforts to implement good governance and eradicate corruption.

The church virtually wrote the peace and conflict management model that government officials and tribal paramount chiefs adhere to when conducting their conjoint affairs. The model has greatly alleviated a long history of contentious and uncivilized relations.

In this heavily Muslim country, the Catholic Church is, by far, the most trusted, respected and loved institution.

A lively encounter between faith and culture is taking place at The Fatima Institute (TFI), a 3-year-old Catholic liberal-arts college and peace, justice and human rights institute located in the northern city of Makeni.

Although humble in terms of its facility, TFI acts as a formidable liberator in Sierra Leone, feeding the hearts, souls and minds of its inhabitants. TFI's radio station, Radio Maria, located on its campus, broadcasts across the country local, national and international news, commentaries, TFI lectures and discussions, music, community meetings and political debates.

On leave from the philosophy department at Jefferson Community College in Watertown, I am a volunteer at TFI.

My schedule at TFI is rigorous. I teach two sections of philosophy of religion, one of which has 47 students and the other 93. The smaller section includes 15 seminarians from Ghana. I also teach courses in existentialism and metaphysics, each with 14 students.

Additionally, I oversee and advise the fourth-year philosophy majors, all of whom are engaged in writing their dissertations. Finally, I am an intern at Radio Maria.

Teaching at TFI is nothing like teaching at JCC. One is not better or worse than the other; they are merely different opportunities to learn.

At TFI, my students arrive for classes dressed in their Sunday best. Before a class begins, they scurry around the campus looking for desks to sit at, often having to drag them long distances. Many revert to transporting them on top of their heads. Far too many, however, are relegated to sitting on the concrete floor.

There are no textbooks for any of the courses offered at TFI. The lecturers convey the material, exploring it via discussions and activities with their students.

In my classes, the students sit erect, with their hands folded on their laps, for the entire two-hour duration. A few jot things down on the scrap of paper that acts as their notebooks. Some conveniently make notations on their arms and legs.

They smile radiantly, despite the challenging content of the lectures, their unfamiliarity with my Northern New York accent, the stifling heat, the growling stomachs, the windows that are rusted closed, the desks that sit cockeyed, the concrete under their bottoms, the hordes of crawling creatures and flying insects, the lack of eyeglasses and hearing devices where they are needed, the absence of books, technology and electricity, and the failure of the chalkboard to retain the dust from the tiny piece of chalk I stroke across it.

They smile radiantly, seemingly having spent some primordial time in a place apart from the rest of us where they were punitively nurtured into a people having to long and hurt for everything, including knowledge. Their smiles poignantly reveal a temporary relief.

TFI's motto is Building a Civilization of Love.

In the synagogue of Nazareth, Jesus described his mission with the words of the prophet Isaiah: "The spirit of the Lord is upon me. He has sent me good news for the poor, liberty to captives, freedom to the oppressed."

At TFI, the long-awaited new world is one where there will be no place for slavery, hunger, injustice, selfishness and sin. TFI's mission is to continue the mission of Jesus — to build the civilization of love. In many ways, the task is an especially befitting one in Sierra Leone.

I, along with many other visiting Westerners, consistently remark on the absence of what we would consider normal, healthy and socially acceptable affection between friends, partners, spouses, and parents and children — affectionate language, hand-holding, kissing, hugging and behaviors that signify love, support, pride and care.

These gestures and behaviors are not culturally prohibited in Sierra Leone. Why, then, are they not visible?

Particularly disturbing is that displays of affection between parents and children appear nonexistent. Babies and very young children enjoy proximity to their mothers until they are weaned, nestled on their mothers' backs in colorful fabrics. Fathers, however, rarely engage at any level with their partners, spouses or children.

Once children are weaned, they spend the vast majority of their time (often throughout the night) running in packs, wholly independent of parental influence, expectations, scrutiny and affection. Since the packs of children tend to be multiaged, 3- and 4-year-olds are privy to the antics of 12- and 13-year-olds.

Occasionally, parents learn about and tend to serious discipline issues, typically resolving them with ferocious floggings. I have witnessed several of these. Additionally, I and other Westerners have observed an inordinate number of acts of cruelty inflicted by children on children and animals. Most startling to us is how the children react to our interventions in these instances — with utter bewilderment.

I reside in Makeni (population 106,000), at the end of an alley, on a compound with six structures.

There are the house I share with a couple from England (also volunteers at TFI); a separate apartment unit where a secondary-school French teacher from Guinea resides; a decrepit, crumbling structure where an elderly man, just skin and bones, spends his final days; an unoccupied, burned-out house once occupied by rebel forces during the war; a mausoleum containing the photograph and remains of the former owner of the compound; and a poyo (fermented palm sap) hut.

Sierra Leone is home to some of the finest poyo in the world.

For a large part of the day, the poyo hut is empty. At around 2 p.m., the proprietor arrives with a rickety wooden flatbed wagon carrying her 14-month-old son and six or so 6-gallon plastic containers filled with poyo.

She sweeps the dirt floor of the hut, burns the collected debris, mends a small area of the grossly deteriorating thatched roof, tends to her laundry by aggressively smacking the soapy, wet articles against a large boulder, rinses them in water drawn from the well, flings them on top of the thatched roof to dry and wipes clean the five long drinking benches.

Finally, she nurses her son, preparing him for the hours of inattentiveness that lie ahead. Her patrons begin to trickle in around 4 p.m.

The poyo is served in colorful plastic sand buckets (the kind children would have at the beach) or in large glass mayonnaise jars. (Neither the poyo nor the containers would pass a health inspection in the United States.)

The whitish liquid looks like a cup of soapy water with sappy globs, bits of bark and gnats floating in it. Sierra Leoneans enjoy its deliciously relaxing effect. With the effect comes the comment, "Dat's fine poyo!"

Normally, at around 7 p.m., I walk the five yards from my home to the poyo hut. Although only an occasional drinker in Northern New York, I am a two-beers-a-day drinker in Sierra Leone.

I take with me two warm Becks beers that I have purchased from the double amputee who owns the concrete building guarded by "comrades" who have rags tied around their faces to conceal their identities. (At varying levels, there is a combat edge to all forms of business in Sierra Leone.)

The building is stuffed with cases of Becks and Heineken beer, creating an incongruous visual where opulence momentarily dissipates the normal nothingness.

A single bottle of either brand costs, in U.S. currency, approximately 18 cents, a bargain especially considering that the bottles appear as though they would pass a health inspection. While there, one does not engage the beer man in discussions having to do with the nature of his business. Trust me.

Inside the poyo hut, in a patron's casual remark, Barack Obama is referred to as a "savior." The comment inspires another patron to wonder out loud whether even a savior can rectify America's problems.

For the inhabitants of the poyo hut, in a subtle way, the comment has dangerously called into question the powers of Africa's new god. In order to minimize the damage and reinstate his god's omnipotence, a 40-ish man takes to the dirt floor and delivers, verbatim, according to memory, Obama's entire inauguration speech! The patrons (and I) are clearly lifted by the long and stunning oration.

Spectacular displays of memorization (illiteracy's panacea) and intellect are the norm in the poyo hut.

On another occasion, I witnessed a beautiful and insightful extemporaneous sermon on kindness, delivered by a young man wearing a ragged St. Lawrence University T-shirt. Between the moving sermon and the T-shirt's power to momentarily transport me home, I was relegated to tears.

On still another occasion, a bizarre-looking female delivered an equally bizarre explanation for the presence of evil and suffering in the world, attributing them to a force personified in the figure of Libya's Moammar Gaddafi.

Finally, there was the scant young woman, just weeks away from delivering her baby, who, from memory and in a gentle whisper recited precisely the first seven pages of the Maternal and Infant Wellness pamphlet distributed by Holland's humanitarian forces in Sierra Leone.

Quite honestly, nothing here perplexes me more than the hope that prevails among Sierra Leoneans.

Last night, my dream produced the disturbing image of thousands of Sierra Leoneans frantically bobbing in the sea along the pristine coastal beaches. Above and below the water they oscillated, unable to swim, arms flailing, fear manifested in their bulging eyes, gasping for air, regurgitating sea water and profoundly desperate to defy their futile circumstances.

Later in the dream, their lifeless bodies created magnificent sculptures in the way the waves deposited them along the beach.

The dream shamefully projects my inability to understand and internalize the hope that sustains Sierra Leoneans. The deplorable conditions and the obscure signs of progress impede my realization.

Why hope, I remark to myself at a time of total exhaustion, when the problem could be solved, first, by airlifting out of here every Sierra Leonean and, second, by permanently dumping the entire landmass into the sea?

The remark is so insensitive and disgraceful that it spirals me downward into an excruciating and very personal kind of despair ... the like of which is unknown here.