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“Everything is Just Spoiled” A firsthand account of SIM missionaries during the Doe/Taylor conflict |
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It was suppertime on July fifth. The Carrs and Barb
Hartwig had just sat down to eat when Matt's language helper, Mamadee
appeared in their yard. He was running. "Mamadee! Mamadee! What's up?'' Matt shouted. "The rebels are coming. The rebels are in
Salayie.'' Matt and Brenda knew their arrival was inevitable.
They'd followed their progress on the two-way radio as the NPFL moved along
the main road toward Zorzor, but their radio also told them they hadn't
arrived yet. According to Doctor Mark Munson at the Lutheran
hospital in Zorzor, they were moving at a rate of about five miles a day.
None of the missionaries were worried, yet. For weeks they'd watched
Mandingos from Monrovia, Bomi Hills, and other points south streaming
northward along a narrow, hilly road. The road, practically invisible under the rain forest
canopy and too small to deserve notice in Liberia's official Planning and
Development Atlas, snaked through Bopolu, on past Belle Yella, site of the
infamous military prison, and into Salayie on the main road. From there they
followed the main road into Zorzor, from Zorzor to Voinjama, and on out of
Liberia and into Guinea. The terrain is hilly, almost mountainous, swathed in
tropical rain forest, beautiful by any standards. The vegetation is dense,
dark green. A canopy of shorter trees covers the land at a height of fifty to
seventy five feet, looking, from the air, like a well manicured lawn invaded
by gophers. Out of the canopy, the forest giants rise high above the shorter
trees. At ground level, the undergrowth is luxuriant, and impenetrable. A
healthy man in good times might make the walk through Liberia's
"mountain'' region and enjoy the sights. In war time, with no food, no vehicles, fleeing almost
certain death, this road was a walking death sentence for hundreds of
innocent people. They came by the thousands, and the misery they
endured was heart breaking. Travelers told of women leaving the road to
deliver babies in the bush. People starved to death as they straggled
painfully to the north. Those who made it arrived in Voinjama hungry and
sick, feet swollen from the arduous trek. Between Bopolu and Salayie a bridge across the Via
River had collapsed under the weight of passing refugees. Unable to cross,
afraid to go back, people waited there until starvation claimed them in the
forest. Now the threat that drove those earlier refugees was
no longer just in the south. It had moved close enough to Voinjama to drive
Mamadee into a panic. "We got to get out of here. They're coming. Can
you carry me?'' A military curfew was enforced from six pm to six am,
and with the town full of government troops, Matt was reluctant to say yes.
He suggested, "Mamadee, its six thirty now. There's no way I can take
you tonight. Anyway, I don't want you to go now. When they get closer, all
right. But if you go to Guinea now you're going to starve like the people did
last time.'' Back in June, shortly after the US warships had taken
up positions off the coast near Monrovia, all the Mandingos had left Voinjama. Soldiers fleeing the
unsuccessful defense of Kakata had filled the town, fueling a climate of
fear. One Friday, a market day, when the town was crowded
with people, a truckload of AFL soldiers appeared suddenly and unloaded in
the marketplace. Their motivation was a mystery, but their unexpected
presence caused a panic. By this time in the war all of Liberia's people had
developed a healthy dread of men with rifles. In the chaos that followed, a
baby lying on a mat by its mother's market was trampled to death. People had fled to Guinea, found hard times, and gradually
filtered back to Voinjama. Their Loma neighbors greeted them with a typical
Liberian saying: A dog barks in the night and the Mandingos all run to
Guinea. Matt knew Mamadee had a little savings and a little rice that would
be wasted if he left now. So they prayed for him that night. The streets were
alive with people moving, with soldiers patrolling to keep them from leaving. One of the soldiers came to Mamadee's house that night
and said, "Just sit down tonight. You're not going anywhere. We've got
the roads blocked, we don't want panic, we don't want people getting lost in
the forest at night. It's not worth it. We're leaving too, but we're going to
go in the daylight When we know we're going, when we can do things right,
when we can get out of here in an orderly way, then we can all go. Don't be
foolish.'' The next day, Friday the sixth, Matt took his friend
Mamadee, some of his family, and carried them up through Sakonedu to cross
the border into Guinea. On Saturday, people from every tribe, Loma, Gbandi,
Kissi, Mandingo, formed a mass exodus, carrying what little they could in
head loads. Saturday brought many more trips to ferry neighbors and friends
to safety. There were persistent stories of Mandingos in NPFL
territory being searched out and killed, but they were stories no one wanted
to believe. In spite of them, young Mandigo men would carry their families to
safety and return to mind the store. As they saw it, the NPFL had promised on the radio
they would not be embarrassed (harmed or put in a tight spot), so they were
safe. "Besides,'' they would argue, "we're
Liberians. We've been making farm here for years and years and years. We know
our forefathers were from this area. This is our land. When the rebels come,
we'll just tell them that. We're Liberians. We're for you.'' Missionaries, with a lot less to lose, were not the
only ones who underestimated the seriousness of the threat closing in on
Voinjama. People would tell Matt, "Well, if anything
happens, we'll just come to your house. That's what people are doing in
Monrovia. They're going to the international areas. We'll be safe at your
house. They won't do anything.'' The UN compound and St. Peter's Lutheran
Church massacres were still in future. If even a few of the stories were true, and his house
were flooded with people seeking refuge, Matt knew Brenda, Ben and Becky
would be in jeopardy. At the regular morning radio check on Tuesday, he
talked with Mark Munson, and the news was not good. "Well, it finally happened. Yesterday at 10 o'clock
the NPFL came to Zorzor, fired a big gun at the city gates, and were all over
town. They called my staff together at the hospital and said, 'We're here,
we're for you. Be free. Relax, just do what we tell you. Don't hide, don't
run. We're here to protect you. This is something good for Liberia.'' "You guys (the missionaries) are all right, no
problem,'' he said to Matt. Matt wanted to know how Mandingos were faring in
Zorzor, but knew he couldn't ask outright. "Mark, do you know the
language I'm studying?'' He said, "Yeah, I do. "Is there anything I need to know about those
people?'' He said, "Well, our visitors have been asking
about those people.'' That was forbidding news, and he knew he had to take
it downtown to share with his friends and neighbors. When people in town
asked what he knew, he could warn them, "They're asking for Mandingos in
Zorzor.'' Home from downtown, Matt joined Brenda and Barb
Hartwig for prayer. It would be best, they decided, for Brenda to return to
Kortulahun with Barb that afternoon. Kortulahun was farther west and in the
Gbandi area. When all the Mandingos were out of Voinjama or the NPFL came,
things should settle down and she could return. Matt didn't want her at home if fighters came
searching for Mandingos in their house, and he knew if his friends came for
refuge he couldn't turn them away. So that afternoon Brenda and the two children left. By the eleventh, the news from Mark Munson in Zorzor
had turned grim. "What news Mark?'' "Well, you know the language your studying? It's
probably a good idea for any of those people to leave the country.'' No one knew who may have been listening, and Mark
couldn't say why he gave that advice. Matt only knew he had to go into town
once again with the news. He found a lot of people still there. "All right, what do you hear?'' Matt replied, "We got advice from Zorzor that you
should probably leave the country. That's what they're saying.'' "If something bad comes, we can come to your
house.'' "All right. My wife and my children are gone so
you can come. But you know, I can beg for you, I can plead for you, but I
won't be able to stop them if they mean to do you harm.'' Later that morning, Sister Joan Kelly, a Catholic
missionary in Voinjama, passed Mark's warning on to her friend, the mayor,
who called a town meeting. One man in the audience rose to speak. "We know
that the Lomas and the Mandingos
belong to Voinjama. We've lived here together a long time. We're not
saying that we want you out, but we think its best
for you to leave right now.'' They said, "You don't like us. You're trying to
get rid of us. You want Voinjama for yourselves.'' "No, I want you to know you can't talk to people
with machine guns. It's best to go sit down somewhere. I'm going. I can't
take a chance, either. I have to go somewhere and be quiet for a long time
before I understand what's going to go on and then I'll come back if I can.'' By that time all the soldiers were gone from town, and
there were no more police left. Matt's neighbor told him, "Oh, you don't
have anything to be concerned with. The Mandingos are leaving. The rebels are
coming. They're not going to hurt you. The missionaries, there's no problem
for them. And we're going to have a good thing once the NPFL gets here.'' Friday the 13th, market day, Matt went into town and
even though there was scarcely a Mandingo left, there was a larger market
than he'd expected. He thought maybe, with the Mandingos gone and life
carrying on pretty much as before, it would be a good time for Brenda to come
home. It was too late that day, but that night, about 8:30
on the embassy radio net, they talked. "Matt, are there still a lot of Mandingos in
town?'' He said, "No, they're all are gone. Everybody's
gone.'' "If the Mandingos aren't in town, what do you
think about me coming home,'' Brenda said. "Well, I've been thinking a lot about that today
and I'd really like for you guys to get back here so we can go through this
together before they come.'' They made arrangements for Matt to leave Voinjama and
Larry Allen to leave Kolahun with Brenda and her children at six the next
morning. They would rendezvous at Kortulahun junction around seven and be
home in Voinjama by eight. They hoped that would be before the NPFL arrived. To allow for the unforeseen, they arranged to talk at
5:45. After a sleepless night, Matt rose in time for the 5:45 radio contact
and found the signal practically unintelligible. Comparing notes later, they
found that both had yelled, "Meet at the designated time and point,''
but when they left for Kortulahun, neither knew with certainty the other
would be there. They met a little before 7:00 am on Saturday, July
14th. Ben Motis and Cathy Johnson had accompanied Larry and they paused in
the rush of stowing Brenda's luggage in the car for a time of prayer
together. They had no idea how badly the prayer would be needed during the
following hours. They arrived in Voinjama at 10 minutes to 8. Coming
down the hill by the Seventh Day Adventist school, they heard a loud popping
sound. "That was a shot,'' Matt exclaimed nervously. "No, the car just threw up a rock that hit
underneath the car,'' was Brenda's composed response. When it happened a second time, though, Matt said,
"That does sound like a shot.'' And then the smell of gunpowder filled they air, accompanied by the sound of shots on all sides.
The long expected NPFL had arrived in Voinjama at about the time Matt and
Brenda had met in Kolahun. This was their introduction. Matt slowed the car to a crawl. Brenda hugged her
toddlers to herself and began praying out loud. He felt the adrenalin pumping
through him as he realized they were driving through the middle of an
invasion. Gunfire crackled from everywhere. Was it the sound of people dying?
The kind of random, aimless shooting who which we'd grown accustomed in
Monrovia was outside Matt's experience. He couldn't imagine why they would
shoot that way. Creeping toward the main junction, where the main road
from Monrovia runs into town, they saw no fighters, but the gunfire continued
with unabated intensity. As they crossed the junction, a Monrovia transit bus
and convoy of pickup trucks roared into view. Lights flashing, fighters
hanging from their windows, an army of more than two hundred men rolled into
town toward them. Matt turned quickly in the opposite direction, driving
ahead of the convoy into the middle of town, toward their house. Brenda
prayed, "Lord Jesus help us. Protect us. Protect the children, Give the
rebels patience when they see us.'' It was anybody's guess how these troops might deal
with a missionary family. They continued toward home, dreading their
inevitable first contact with armed men. This main road literally cuts through downtown
Voinjama. From the southern end of town, where it divides to flow around the
immense tree growing in its center, into the heart of the town, the surface
of the road has eroded downward several feet over the years. Stairways
leading into the shops, stretching out on either side of the road for two or
three blocks, give evidence of the gradual sinking of the street. Driving into this shallow store-lined canyon, they saw
a crowd of people. . It was a cold, misty morning in the low mountains of
Upper Lofa county, but the people sat, shirtless, shivering in the street. Another group stood to the left. Matt recognized one
of them as Gio man who was a church elder. He thought, "They've
separated out the Gio's.'' The people on the ground were mostly Loma and
Gbandi. The fighters guarding them motioned Matt over to them. "Where are you running to? Why are you running
away from us?'' At the time, Carrs didn't know that the crime of running away
from the advance of hostilities was a high crime in the eyes of the fighters. "Excuse me, sir,'' Matt responded, "but
we're not running anywhere. We're coming home from Kolahun. My wife has been
there for a week, shopping. I left town to get her this morning.'' "Ooooooh, so you're the one. We heard about a car
leaving this morning. OK, I'll hang. Let's go to your house.'' Ekaineh Koke was the man's name. Actually, like most
of the fighters, he was little more than a boy, around 5'9'' and of average
build. A Gio who might have been a farmer before he became a fighter, Matt
describes him as a "typical Liberian high school student.'' Without
their knowledge or invitation, Ekaineh Koke was adopting them as his
missionaries. He had the appearance of innocence that "can melt
a missionaries heart,'' but the guile to knew how to work them for all they
were worth. He'd done just that in Zorzor where he had adopted Mark Munson
and talked him out of a four wheel drive truck. Ekaineh Koke must have viewed the Carrs as a valuable
asset because he seemed willing to defend his investment in them with his
life. A guardian angel with a very rusty halo, he would prove his worth
before they'd travelled together more than a few blocks. He got on the back of the truck and began the trip
through town "hanging'', clinging to the outside of the Land Cruiser as
they bounced along. They drove past the courthouse and made a left turn on
the road that ran down past the Methodist church. As they passed, three
rebels charged out from behind the parsonage, screaming and firing their
automatic rifles in the air. In Matt's eyes, they were "just going crazy. "Stop, stop!'' they screamed repeatedly, firing
their rifles all the while. From outside the car, Ekaineh Koke screamed,
"Don't stop. Keep going.'' Matt thought, "Great. I've got three guys with
rifles telling me to stop, and one guy with a rifle telling me to ignore
them.'' The group with three rifles were more persuasive. He stopped the car. "Get out, get out, get out.'' All three of them shouted commands at once. These were
men who, only months before had lived the quiet life of village farmers. They
had been armed, trained hastily if at all, and sent out to fight a war. They
had power they had never even imagined, and enjoyed using it. Matt and Brenda alighted from the car and stood, Matt
on the driver's side, Brenda on the passenger side. There she stood by the
car, her babies at her feet, screaming, her hands in the air and an automatic
rifle aimed at her stomach. To Matt, who also stood at gunpoint, they shouted,
"Get your shirt off.'' That explained why the men downtown had been
shivering, shirtless, in the street. This demand to disrobe was standard
operating procedure for both sides. At one level it was part of the tactic of
intimidation they practiced. At a more grisly level, it was sometimes the
prelude to execution. He slid out of his shirt as quickly as he could. "Empty your pockets!'' He quickly dumped the
contents of his pockets on the ground. Forty dollars disappeared in a flash.
His captors looked with concern at the Swiss Army knife he carried, so he
handed it to be examined, found harmless, and, inexplicably, returned . Many of these men had never even seen Monrovia. They
were country people with experience of a world not much wider than the rustic
life of their own villages. Their very innocence made them dangerous. So many
simple things looked suspicious or threatening. Through all this, Ekaineh Koke continued to cling to
the outside of the car, adding his shouts to the din. "I have the situation under control. I know who
these missionaries are. I'm taking them home. They're coming from Kolahun.
They're not running away. Calm down.'' All the while he shouted his entreaties at the other
fighters, he was quietly telling Matt to put his shirt on and get back in the
car. The other three continued to scream and yell and their weapons. Brenda, on the other side, guarded her children,
praying for them and the diaper bag. Because that was the one thing they were
never without, it contained everything they had of value: money, visas,
passports. "If it was important to us, it was in that bag.'' Her prayers were all answered. In the confusion, none
of the men paid any attention to a baby's diaper bag. Finally, sensing his victory, Ekaineh Koke said
quietly, "Get back in the car.'' Matt, just as quietly put his shirt on
and slid into the driver's seat while the other men continued to yell and
shoot into the air. Matt said to their guardian, "Can you get in the
front seat so this time I can hear your instructions?'' As he slid into the passenger's seat, he instructed
Matt, "Turn on your flashers so we don't have another incident like
that. That shows it's a rebel car.'' Matt activated the emergency flashers and pulled
cautiously away from the Methodist church. Ekaineh Koke suggested,
unnecessarily, "Drive slow, don't attract gunfire, and just keep
going.'' All along the way, house after house sported signs
hastily scrawled in charcoal, proclaiming they were now the property of NPFL
fighters. "Special commando lives here.'' "Rambo commando lives here.'' During the course
of the war several Rambo’s, usually teen aged boys, gained some small
notoriety. As they drove, Ekaineh Koke spotted a car he liked.
"I'm coming back for that car. Do you have a radio?'' Matt answered, "Yes.'' "Good. I want to talk to Gbarnga and let our CIC
(Commander In Chief, Charles Taylor) know we've been successful in taking
Voinjama and that none of Doe's people are here.'' Taylor was CIC to all his
fighters. When they finally reached home, Matt pulled into the
yard expecting to find fighters everywhere and Rambo written on the side of
their house. They found everything quiet. They had reached their end of town
ahead of Taylor's men. "Start unpacking the car,'' Ekaineh Koke
commanded immediately, "in case some more of those boys come.'' CIC called President Doe "That boy,'' and Ekaineh
Koke talked about his comrades at arms the same way. "These boys will
really take advantage of you if they see the car full. They'll try to take
some of that stuff, so get it in the house as quickly as you can.'' Matt took Ekaineh Koke into the bedroom where the
radio was set up, warning him that he'd never had a radio contact with
Gbarnga. "Well try Zorzor, contact Monrovia. Call ELWA, I don't care. Just
tell somebody we have taken Voinjama.'' He said, "You've been saved.
People say the rebels are coming, the rebels are coming? The rebels are
here-o. We're not rebels. We're freedom fighters.'' As predicted, no one answered at Gbarnga, but Matt was
able to raise the Allen’s. "We got home all right. The Freedom Fighters are here.
We had contacts with them, but we're fine. They're treating us OK. They
understand why we were gone. We're in our house. Don't be surprised if we
have to disconnect the radio.'' Radio contacts were always touchy. The fighters were
suspicious of anybody with a two way radio, very sensitive to any suggestion
that they may have been less than honorable. It was also impossible to know
who may have been listening. Messages had to be kept cryptic, at best, and
often carefully coded transmissions were unintelligible, even to those for
whom they were intended. Allen’s acknowledged receipt of the message, and no
more. Ekaineh Koke, tired of trying to notify CIC, said,
"I want to go into that town and get that car. Can you help me with the ride.'' Thus began a period of acting as chauffeur and central
stores for Ekaineh Koke. There was rice in the car. "Can you help me with
some rice?'' Matt had drums of kerosene, gasoline, cooking oil in
the store room of his house. "Can you help me with some gasoline?'' The threat of injury and even death had been very real
that morning, but at this point they still believed there was nothing to fear
from these forces. Word was that Charles Taylor had warned against looting.
Ekaineh Koke was obviously nervous about taking anything against Carrs'
wishes. As badly as he wanted the rice he'd asked for, he really looked
anxious about taking it. Matt said, "do you want some of it?'' He said, "Yeah. But I'm not taking it. If you
want to give it to me I'll take it.'' "Yeah, take all of it. It's a gift. We appreciate
what you've done for us.'' So Matt gave him the rice. "OK, I'll be back for it. Let's go in for my car.
I want to get my car before somebody else gets it.'' Matt said he could do that. "Can I have a couple gallons of gas, in case the
car's out of gas.'' It's hard to say no to a man with a winning smile and
an AK-47. When they arrived in town, Ekaineh Koke found the car
belonged to a Gio man. "Sorry, the car's spoiled,'' he said. "I
haven't been able to move it.'' Ekaineh Koke replied with a burst of automatic
gunfire. Then, "Give me the keys. I want the car. I want the car now. If
the car's not for you, if the car's not for me, I'll spray the car. Give me
the keys, we're going to get this car running.'' When the man promised to have the car running in an
hour, Ekaineh Koke climbed into Matt's vehicle and directed him to drive to
the house where his CO was staying. "I want to introduce you to him.'' The CO had established his headquarters in the home of
a Lebanese businessman. They arrived in the middle of a meeting with the
Lebanese men left in town. The commander motioned Matt to a chair but
continued with the meeting. A hard faced Liberian woman in a full US military
uniform sat beside the CO, adorned with a bandolier of ammunition and a belt
of hand grenades. When it was Matt's turn to speak, the CO began a
conversation that would have been at home in an Abbott and Costello routine. He said, "Who are you?'' "Matthew Carr.'' "Where are you from?'' "From Voinjama.'' The CO said, "No, I mean . . . What are you?'' "I'm a missionary.'' "No, where are you from.'' "I'm from Voinjama.'' He said, "No, I mean what nationality.'' The comic relief ended abruptly when Matt identified
himself as a US citizen. "OK, I thought so. You're a missionary?'' "Yes sir.'' He said, "No, you're CIA.'' "No sir. I'm here with ELWA. I am a missionary.'' He said, "Well, all missionaries are CIA. You're
CIA. We execute CIA people.'' I said, "Well, I'm a missionary, I'm working here
with ELWA. I can't say it any plainer than that. That's my life'' "How long have you been here in Voinjama?'' "Two years.'' "OK,'' he said, "Do you have a radio?'' "Yes sir, I have a radio at my house.'' "They told me you drove into town this morning. What
were you doing?'' I explained my story. He said, "OK, my major here
is going to take you to your house and check out your radio for me. If you're
CIA, we'll find it out. If you're missionaries, stay calm. This is a war.
Things happen in war. Just stay in your house, keep the doors open. I'm going
to try to set a guard at your house to protect you and your things.'' Matt thanked him politely and left for the car with
Donkuan and Ekaineh Koke. The Major swung his leg carefully into the car and
explained that he had been shot in the foot and it made him move kind of
slow. If the interview with the CO had been disheartening,
the ride with the Major was absolutely blood chilling. Unlike most of the
NPFL fighters, he was in full military uniform, armed with a pistol and an
automatic rifle. He was openly hostile. "I know you're a CIA agent. I'm personally going
to torture you and then I'm going to kill you.'' There wasn't much Matt could say to that kind of
declaration except to repeat the truth. The Major was not interested. He said, "I don't believe you. Missionaries
aren't that calm around guns. You're spying for Doe. You're going to try to
get out of here and go back and give Doe all of our secrets. So I'm going to
execute you when I get the chance.'' By the time they arrived at the house, Brenda, who had
no idea what had transpired downtown, had made signs with strips of computer
paper saying, "SIM - ELWA MISSION,'' in big block letters and hung them
on the house. Ekaineh Koke saw the signs and said, "Very good, that's
excellent.'' He was concerned that he might lose "his'' missionaries.'' When the Major saw Brenda and the two small children,
his attitude changed completely. Missionaries may not know much about guns,
but neither do CIA agents bring wives and babies into battle zones. "Has anybody been humbugging you? Have any of our
men come asking for things? Has anybody taken anything from you? Has anybody
embarrassed you in any way?'' "No sir.'' He spotted the quarter bag of rice Matt had given to
Ekaineh Koke earlier. "What's the rice there?'' "That belongs to Ekaineh Koke.'' He looked at Ekaineh Koke real sharply. "Did you
take this from these people?'' |