Macro vs. micro change

A couple nights ago, I wrote about an engaging memoir by Ian Stewart, including a quote from his book that doesn’t exactly scream “inspiration” for all the journalists in the house: “I knew I was a bystander who could do nothing to help, nothing to curb the bloodshed,” he writes. “I scorned my earlier naїveté in thinking my stories might change anything.”

And yes, I absolutely loved this book that, at times, paints a rather bleak picture of what kind of difference journalists can make – it was a question Stewart clearly spent a lot of time thinking about while in West Africa and since his return. But there are also times he speaks about the reporting he and his colleagues did in a more empowering light, such as this quote from the memoir’s epilogue:

For one brief glimpse, Africa’s wars and crises captured the world’s attention in the summer of 2000. In May of that year, Sierra Leone became a headline-grabbing story in the media as hundreds of UN peacekeepers deployed to halt yet another Revolutionary United Front assault on Freetown. I like to think the previous year’s reporting by Myles, David, and myself [sic] set the stage for the UN’s involvement.

With myriad resources at my disposal courtesy of internationally-minded friends and JHR, as well as the time to go through them afforded by my current delightful unemployment, I’ve been fortunate to give ample thought to my role and expectations going into Sierra Leone – and I will be striving to approach it a lot differently than Stewart.

Laudable though it may be, Stewart seems to have taken his post with impossibly ambitious goals, convinced he could make the world care about Africa by the quality of his prose alone. It betrays a sort of professional egotism I don’t think I have. And when it didn’t happen, it left him crushed and ill-prepared to cope.

Rather, I’m entering my position as a JHR trainer with the micro scale tops on my agenda. While I’d certainly like to freelance some work back in Canada and maybe even help a few readers gain a more nuanced understanding of a foreign situation, my prime concern is working with the journalists in Freetown.

In seven months, I can’t fix systemic problems with roots that run lifetimes beyond me. Hopefully, in between all the lessons I learn from my journalism colleagues, I can impart enough wisdom to effect small, yet prolonged and meaningful change that will have an impact on the future of the country’s media and, in turn, governance.

My goals, I think, are more achievable than those of Stewart. Now, I just need to learn from lessons past in order to stay within myself, or risk becoming overwhelmed and burnt out in my efforts to fix everything at once.

Munching on CIGI's mangos

When I came across the story of Mariatu Kamara in the Toronto Star on Sept. 2, I fired myself an email as a reminder to try to pick up a copy of the book she co-authored, The Bite of the Mango, before I left Canada. After all, it was the first memoir of the Sierra Leone Civil War that I’d come across which was told from a female perspective.

When I learned from my friend Brandon that Kamara would be making an appearance at the Centre for International Governance Innovation (CIGI), I was quickly stoked, then disappointed to hear he thought it was after I left, and then pleased at least that my friends would get to hear her speak.

But as it turns out, Kamara and her co-author Susan McClelland will be in Waterloo on Thursday, October 9, my second last night in Canada. I have my free ticket to the talk, which sounds as though it will feature McClelland substantially more than Kamara, and anyone else that's interested can get one here. That is all.

Ambushed

Tonight, I finished reading Ambushed: A War Reporter’s Life on the Line by Ian Stewart. Since learning I’d be going to Sierra Leone, I’ve been devouring literature on the country ravenously. But little has left me as rapt as this one, probably in large part because I can relate more to the perspective of a young Canadian journalist than, say, that of a Sierra Leonean child soldier.

In terms of readily accessible literature on Sierra Leone, the vast majority covers the civil war period of 1991-2002. It almost becomes easy to forget that I’m not going into a war zone.

But wars are a lot sexier from a storytelling perspective than the plodding, years-long path of development work, and so the shelves shall likely remain one-sided in crises’ favour. Stewart’s novel, at least, won’t be held responsible for evening the score.

He took over as the Associated Press bureau chief for West Africa in the late 1990s and this memoir follows Stewart’s time in the region until he is shot in Freetown in January 1999, a bullet slamming into the back of his skull with all the unwelcome force of a 20% chance of survival.

Climax notwithstanding, the story actually doesn’t even spill that high a percentage of its ink on the Sierra Leone conflict; it’s more a tale of foreign correspondence in general. And a must-read for anyone considering that path.

Through the pages of this memoir, Stewart bluntly details the horrors of his time in Africa and his grueling recovery, all proffered to the reader without the slightest hint of self-censorship. More often than not, he paints himself in an unflattering light, shown disdainful of colleagues and generally sapped by his experiences. With an honesty I can’t help but respect, Stewart writes:

I could no longer cope with the endless stream of violence and bloodshed I had confronted in West Africa. I couldn’t maintain my role as the professional observer. I knew I was a bystander who could do nothing to help, nothing to curb the bloodshed. I scorned my earlier naïveté in thinking my stories might change anything. On several occasions I started to write to my supervisors in New York to ask for a transfer to another, more peaceful bureau, but always I decided against it, fearing it would be viewed as an admission that I couldn’t cut it as a war correspondent. In the end, that admission of failure scared me more than having to wade back into another war zone.

I remember a few years back I had a conversation with three colleagues at The Cord, where the question was posed whether or not we’d want to report in a war zone if offered the opportunity by a national newspaper. I had written almost exclusively sports at the time, yet was still the only one that said yes.

Today, I would frankly question more than then whether I’m good enough to cover a war. And, as I continually remind my concerned friends and family, Sierra Leone’s war ended six years ago and I am not going to a war zone.

Yet after reading Stewart’s harrowing account of that lonely, stressful, sordid existence, I almost wish I was. Perverse? Perhaps.

Why I think I'm going

It's a question I imagine most people who travel to the developing world grapple with. Why go?

Why live in a house without running water, described thusly by its current inhabitants: "You can expect several varieties of small and huge cockroaches, preying [sic] mantises, ants, termites, mice … they’re your new roommates"? And why, for the love of all things sacred, do it for no monetary gain (as pre-departure costs mount and I increasingly find I'll probably even lose money out of this)?

They're valid questions, and ones I'm sure at least some of my readers would love to hear answers to. So here's why I think I'm going - and I stress the word 'think' because I'm not even sure I possess the self-awareness to know completely what draws me to Sierra Leone.

Admittedly, some of my motives involve self-interest. I'm sick of school and I think this is an opportunity that will strengthen me as a journalist. I think throwing myself so desperately far out of my comfort zone will afford me countless opportunities for growth as a person. And I just generally subscribe to the belief that those who see a greater segment of the world than their country of birth are better equipped to maintain an open mind and understand the issues facing an absurdly complex global community.

But I also want to go because I think it's a tremendously exciting time to be in Sierra Leone. This is a country that, only five years removed from one of the bloodiest, most brutal civil wars in modern history, managed to have free and fair elections at both the national and, just two months ago, local levels. According to everyone I've spoken with, the majority of Sierra Leoneans are tremendously friendly, helpful people - and I see no reason why they shouldn't be given opportunities because they had the bad luck to be born into dire circumstances.

And from a journalism and human rights point of view, there could be no better time to be in Sierra Leone. The Special Court for Sierra Leone is currently trying Charles Taylor - the former Liberian President accused of backing the RUF (Revolutionary United Front) rebels in an effort to gain control over Sierra Leone's diamond mines. Shortly after my arrival, a verdict is expected in the trial of RUF leaders.

These are historic rulings not only for Sierra Leone, but for all the world, similar to the international tribunals on Yugoslavia and Rwanda. What self-respecting journalist wouldn't want an opportunity to bear witness to that?

But ultimately, I look forward to an opportunity to work with passionate journalists and hopefully help them improve, while simultaneously learning from them. A quote from Miriama Khai Fornah in a story by current JHR trainer Rachael Borlase provides an instructive example.

Speaking about the opportunity to cover the Taylor trial, she says, “As a journalist, I’m a mouthpiece for the people. I’m serving as a medium between the government and its citizens. So if I don’t go down and unearth what’s really happening, then the people are blind because nobody will be there to give them the truth.” Turns out journalists can be the same passionate ideologists no matter what corner of the globe they call home.

So, that's where I stand, with only three and a half weeks to go before I leave. Regardless of how accurate my current self-assessment may be, I know it'll be interesting to look back on this come May and evaluate how my views have changed as a result of my experiences - and that's kind of the point.

Sweet Dreams Aren't Made For Me

Well, $460 later and I'm medicated against the the worst diseases Sierra Leone's likely to throw at me - yellow fever, typhoid fever, hepatitis A, malaria - and I should even know within a couple hours whether or not I have tuberculosis (my money's on no).

But with my Toronto visit to tropics specialist Dr. Mark Wise came my first real disappointment of this whole endeavour: no mefloquine. In the world of malaria meds, there are three common anti-malarials prescribed for Sierra Leone: mefloquine, doxycycline and Malarone. Malarone was out of the question, since it would've broken the bank at about $1500.

I'd hoped for mefloquine, of which side effects include insomnia and vivid dreams ("good, bad, erotic and otherwise" according to the good doctor). Side effects? More like added bonuses, especially for a chronic sleep-hater such as myself, who often complains of boring dreams. Of course, there is the pesky business of the other side effects, of which Dr. Wise's website writes: "More serious side effects, such as seizures and psychosis, are relatively rare."

Alas, Dr. Wise settled on doxycycline for me, which boasts the comparably lame side effects of heartburn and upset stomach, and I yielded to his expertise. We'll chalk it up to round one of making wise choices in spite of my entertaining yet often foolish instincts.

And on the plus side, you weren't supposed to take mefloquine with alcohol. Doxycycline carries no such warning.

"Mom, I have bad news ... I got the job."

Editor's note: This post was actually written a couple weeks ago, but I didn't have the blog active at that point.

On Tuesday, August 12, I receieved perhaps the most exciting phone call of my young life. After a summer spent quite contentedly minimally-employed (though I often referred to myself as unemployed because it felt that way after I'd grown accustomed to 70-hour work weeks, I was still working part-time at The Record), I received a phone call from Journalists for Human Rights.

While visiting with my friend Trish, I noticed a message on my old cell phone, the Cord one that should have been defunct months previous, and I anxiously dialed JHR's Toronto office. In my continued quest not to get my hopes up, even as I dialed, I worried about my poor friend and how awkward it would be for her to be the only one present when I received the crushing rejection that would end my first attempt to land a job on the African continent.

Furthering the anticipation, I was promptly put on hold, presumably while my file was found and the voice on the other end of the line prepared her consolatory or congratulatory tone accordingly.

"Hi Mike, thanks for holding. We were calling to offer you the position of radio trainer in Sierra Leone ..."

Never mind that it wasn't the position I applied for and my radio experience was a whopping one year with Laurier's less than stellar, online-only campus radio station. I accepted immediately. And then smiled a lot. I rejoiced with Trish and called the friends I knew would be most eager to hear the news. And then I prepared for a more solemn encounter, as I heard the door open and my mom arrive home.

"Mom, I have bad news ... I got the job."

To her credit, my mother - she of the perpetual worry - took the news very well. She doesn't want me to go. I know this. In fact, I'm beginning to think I've noticed her making all my favourite meals, and can't help but wonder if it's a subtle reminder of all the good things I'll miss. But my mom also knows that I really want to do this and that she can't really stop me anyway, and she's trying really hard to be happy for me.

And so, one month from tomorrow, I board a British Airways flight that will, after 24 hours (factoring in time changes), drop me in my temporary home of Freetown. I leave Canada for more than 10 days for the first time in my life. I take my first real job removed from the university bubble, and turn my attention to a small West African nation that just a decade ago was in the throes of one of the most brutal civil wars in modern history.

And I couldn't be happier.

A brief introduction

Welcome to my new blog. Unlike my past failed forays into the blogosphere, this one begins with an approximate end-date in mind, as it is really only intended to chronicle my upcoming experience in Sierra Leone. Come May or June 2009, this blog will be defunct.

But in the meantime, I have two modest goals for this space. First and foremost, I am writing this blog for my friends in Canada to be able to follow my experiences in West Africa and, hopefully, gain some small insight into a very different way of life. I will be blogging more professionally for Journalists for Human Rights, but this will be a more personal account of my time in SL. And that is essentially the second, fully self-interested goal - to have a written memoir with which to remember the journey I'm about to embark on.

And now, a quick word on the naming of this blog. I learned that I would be going to Sierra Leone about a month ago and have wanted to begin blogging since shortly thereafter. The main obstacle was coming up with a web address I liked - or rather, didn't hate. I settled on fortytwopointsix in part out of impatience, and in part because I feel it's emblematic of one of my reasons for going to SL.

42.6 years is the life expectancy at birth in Sierra Leone, according to the UN. That means the country is almost doubled by my native Canada (80.7) and falls behind such unstable nations as Afghanistan (43.8), Iraq (59.5), Somalia (48.2) and Sudan (58.6). Zambia (42.4), Mozambique (42.1) and Swaziland (39.6) have the dubious distinction as the only nations below Sierra Leone.

And it's not the only social indicator where Sierra Leone fares poorly. The adult literacy rate was a meagre 34.8% in 2005. The infant mortality rate of 160/1000 births was the highest I found. Sierra Leone ranks 177th or 177 nations on the UN Human Development Index, which seeks to measure a country's development in terms of health, knowledge and standard of living. In short, if you're a young journalist looking to report on issues of human rights, you'd be hard-pressed to find an area with more stories to be told.

And so, in the next month or so, I'll try to post occasionally as I continue to read voraciously about my soon-to-be adopted home and prepare for the exciting months ahead. Stay tuned.