Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 275

The Namibian debate over German reparations

Image credit Eric Montfort via Flickr.

Just over a century ago, German colonial troops engaged in genocide against the Herero and Nama people in what is today Namibia. The debate over the form of reparations and who specifically should benefit rages not just between Germany and Namibia as we would expect, but also within Namibia.

The historical facts are clearly documented by a wide range of historians. (here, here and here) Key pieces of evidence include the infamous extermination order issued by the German Lieutenant General Lothar von Trotha, details of the pursuit and killing of men, women and children, the poisoning of wells, and the use of concentration camps with extraordinary rates of death. An estimated 80% of the Herero people and up to 50% of the Nama living at the time were killed. As a result of the work of activists and researchers, today both the Namibian and the German governments agree: German forces engaged in genocide. Getting to such agreement has not been an easy process. The German and Namibian governments have been engaged in negotiations for Berlin to offer a formal apology, as well as some form of payment. But, negotiations have stalled.

First there are those who continue to dispute the facts of the genocide. One prominent denialist is Hinrich Schneider-Waterberg, a German-Namibian farm owner and amateur historian who has written a short book challenging the argument for genocide. Schneider-Waterberg has a clear stake in the debate, as he owns land in the Waterberg where many Herero were killed. It is hard to estimate how significant his support is among German-Namibians, but his book has been prominently displayed in central bookstores in both Swakopmund and Windhoek, areas where there are concentrations of German descendants. But, even among the older generation of German-Namibians, in such colonial towns as Swakopmund, there are a few who work to draw attention to the crimes of the past. Erika Rusch is a key example. She participated in the creation of a unified Cemetery Park to protect the unmarked graves of black African Namibians and to acknowledge German crimes against the Herero.

It is not surprising that some, perhaps most, German-descended Namibians would feel threatened by the acknowledgement of genocide. Colonial era crimes include not just the pursuit and killing of civilians but also the seizure of cattle and land. The vast farms that some, such as Schneider-Waterberg, own formerly comprised Herero and Nama land. Land reform has been minimal since independence, relying on the largely ineffective willing-buyer willing-seller model. Increasingly, activists in Namibia, as in neighboring countries, are demanding that the state seize and redistribute land.

Discussion of crimes of the past is therefore quickly linked to questions of who has the rights to land today. When activists organized a reparations march in Swakopmund in 2007, the local German language newspaper printed unsubstantiated claims that a group fashioning itself along the lines of Kenya’s Mau Mau would be seizing land from whites.

Beyond the white, German-speaking community in Namibia, whose political influence is waning, there are others in the seat of power who resist fully addressing the genocide. Some German Namibians argue that so many crimes were committed during and prior to colonial rule that it makes no sense to focus on one. Interestingly, prominent members of SWAPO, the popular liberation movement and the governing party since Namibian independence, make similar arguments about charges of crimes committed during their struggle for independence from South Africa. Representatives of SWAPO warn of the dangers of delving into past injustices and turned down an offer by the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission to host a hearing in Namibia. SWAPO so effectively blocked investigations into disappearances at their camps that one former SWAPO activist sought to file a case against the government with the International Criminal Court. These attempts to stifle discussion about the legacies of the past stem from a fear of tipping the balance of power.

Power relations clearly play a role in SWAPO’s reticence to support demands for reparations. Its support base is concentrated in the north, among various communities collectively referred to as Owambo. The Owambo were not the target of German colonial-era crimes because they lived outside the established police zone. The descendants of the Herero and Nama, in contrast, have supported a range of parties including prominent opposition parties. Herero and Nama activists demand that reparations payments be paid directly to affected communities rather than the government negotiating on their behalf.  This has undermined the Namibian government’s talks with Berlin regarding a special aid package, payable to the government. SWAPO has tried to keep negotiations and disputes behind closed doors, but recently some of these boiled over into the public domain.

In support of their demands, Herero and Nama activists have filed a class action suit in the Southern District Court in New York. While this suit is likely to fail as the US Supreme Court has restricted the application of the Alien Tort Statue, the attention it receives in the press helps to pressure the two governments. Conflicting reports have also surfaced of the Namibian government contemplating a suit against Germany.

The German government hoped to issue a formal apology, announce an expanded aid package and move on before German elections upcoming in September. This is now highly unlikely. Berlin has also refused to respond to the charges laid in the US District Court, leading to delay in proceedings that were set for July.

For activists seeking both a formal apology from the German government and reparations, the struggle continues and the road ahead is a long one.

The debate over reparations in Namibia

Image credit Eric Montfort via Flickr.

Just over a century ago, German colonial troops engaged in genocide against the Herero and Nama people in what is today Namibia. The debate over the form of reparations and who specifically should benefit rages not just between Germany and Namibia as we would expect, but also within Namibia.

The historical facts are clearly documented by a wide range of historians. (here, here and here) Key pieces of evidence include the infamous extermination order issued by the German Lieutenant General Lothar von Trotha, details of the pursuit and killing of men, women and children, the poisoning of wells, and the use of concentration camps with extraordinary rates of death. An estimated 80% of the Herero people and up to 50% of the Nama living at the time were killed. As a result of the work of activists and researchers, today both the Namibian and the German governments agree: German forces engaged in genocide. Getting to such agreement has not been an easy process. The German and Namibian governments have been engaged in negotiations for Berlin to offer a formal apology, as well as some form of payment. But, negotiations have stalled.

First there are those who continue to dispute the facts of the genocide. One prominent denialist is Hinrich Schneider-Waterberg, a German-Namibian farm owner and amateur historian who has written a short book challenging the argument for genocide. Schneider-Waterberg has a clear stake in the debate, as he owns land in the Waterberg where many Herero were killed. It is hard to estimate how significant his support is among German-Namibians, but his book has been prominently displayed in central bookstores in both Swakopmund and Windhoek, areas where there are concentrations of German descendants. But, even among the older generation of German-Namibians, in such colonial towns as Swakopmund, there are a few who work to draw attention to the crimes of the past. Erika Rusch is a key example. She participated in the creation of a unified Cemetery Park to protect the unmarked graves of black African Namibians and to acknowledge German crimes against the Herero.

It is not surprising that some, perhaps most, German-descended Namibians would feel threatened by the acknowledgement of genocide. Colonial era crimes include not just the pursuit and killing of civilians but also the seizure of cattle and land. The vast farms that some, such as Schneider-Waterberg, own formerly comprised Herero and Nama land. Land reform has been minimal since independence, relying on the largely ineffective willing-buyer willing-seller model. Increasingly, activists in Namibia, as in neighboring countries, are demanding that the state seize and redistribute land.

Discussion of crimes of the past is therefore quickly linked to questions of who has the rights to land today. When activists organized a reparations march in Swakopmund in 2007, the local German language newspaper printed unsubstantiated claims that a group fashioning itself along the lines of Kenya’s Mau Mau would be seizing land from whites.

Beyond the white, German-speaking community in Namibia, whose political influence is waning, there are others in the seat of power who resist fully addressing the genocide. Some German Namibians argue that so many crimes were committed during and prior to colonial rule that it makes no sense to focus on one. Interestingly, prominent members of SWAPO, the popular liberation movement and the governing party since Namibian independence, make similar arguments about charges of crimes committed during their struggle for independence from South Africa. Representatives of SWAPO warn of the dangers of delving into past injustices and turned down an offer by the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission to host a hearing in Namibia. SWAPO so effectively blocked investigations into disappearances at their camps that one former SWAPO activist sought to file a case against the government with the International Criminal Court. These attempts to stifle discussion about the legacies of the past stem from a fear of tipping the balance of power.

Power relations clearly play a role in SWAPO’s reticence to support demands for reparations. Its support base is concentrated in the north, among various communities collectively referred to as Owambo. The Owambo were not the target of German colonial-era crimes because they lived outside the established police zone. The descendants of the Herero and Nama, in contrast, have supported a range of parties including prominent opposition parties. Herero and Nama activists demand that reparations payments be paid directly to affected communities rather than the government negotiating on their behalf.  This has undermined the Namibian government’s talks with Berlin regarding a special aid package, payable to the government. SWAPO has tried to keep negotiations and disputes behind closed doors, but recently some of these boiled over into the public domain.

In support of their demands, Herero and Nama activists have filed a class action suit in the Southern District Court in New York. While this suit is likely to fail as the US Supreme Court has restricted the application of the Alien Tort Statue, the attention it receives in the press helps to pressure the two governments. Conflicting reports have also surfaced of the Namibian government contemplating a suit against Germany.

The German government hoped to issue a formal apology, announce an expanded aid package and move on before German elections upcoming in September. This is now highly unlikely. Berlin has also refused to respond to the charges laid in the US District Court, leading to delay in proceedings that were set for July.

For activists seeking both a formal apology from the German government and reparations, the struggle continues and the road ahead is a long one.

Re-encountering Biafra in film archives

Image credit Daniel lam via Flickr.

What personal and collective memory is evoked when we encounter films from a historical period? The discovery, in 2015, of a batch of films from Nigeria’s postcolonial and post-war history in the abandoned rooms of the old Colonial Film Unit in Lagos, led me to reflect about the possibilities and challenges that arise from it for public memorializing. Their seeming sudden presence triggered the question: What process of forgetting triggered this mass internment?

Perhaps, the answer lies in two titles we kept encountering as we began the initial process of analyzing and documenting the cans: Shehu Umar, a film about a kidnapped boy who rose from slavery to become a sage. It is based on the title novella by Nigeria’s first Prime Minister, the late Sir Tafawa Balewa, who died in the coup staged in 1966 by radical young officers of the Nigerian army that led to the Biafran War. The second film was The Nigeria Civil War, footage shot by federal forces documenting the Biafra War.

In the 1950s and 1960s, the situation for film archiving was quite good, Nigeria was a fine example of how to organize state archives – until the Biafran War. Following the war, archival considerations quickly deteriorated. The abandonment of Nigeria’s film archives, therefore, originated in the experience of trauma: the Biafra-Nigeria war. Encountering this archive is, thus, a re-encounter with trauma, as well as an attempt to understand it, to reflect on and engage with the biography of the material, the gaps and political controversy that exists within its history. The initial response was how to present this history, the memory stored in these cans. To compensate for the lack of prior encounter with film archives, a series of films, among them Jonathan Oppenheimer’s “The Act of Killing” – about anti-communist, state-sanctioned violence in Indonesia – was screened to illustrate how remembering could be deployed, not only to excavate history and memory, but also how audiences can contribute to coming to terms with the past and negotiating personal and collective trauma.

But, there were misgivings. In a world where terrorists have staged executions, how do you watch murderers in elaborate costume enter character and stage acts of torture and killings they perpetrated? Especially, that terminal sequence when one of the murderers asked to be taken to the venue where the most heinous acts took place and, unable to endure his own memories, began to throw up. I have mixed feelings over this scene – should Oppenheimer have turned off the camera? Incidentally, the attempted coup and subsequent mass killings in Indonesia in the mid-1960s bear similarity with Nigeria’s and was separated by just a year. (Indonesia recently opened discussions on this dark past, one of the bloodiest events of the 20th century, with a public symposium.)

The question, 50 years after the start of the Biafran War, is: how could a national archive of films contribute to the practice of memory and coming to terms with the past 50 years, and events of 1967? Could this archival practice, as a site of public memory, be a beginning symbol of closure? Both my parents were survivors of the war, but they lost everything. My first experience of the act of forgetting was my father’s silence, his refusal to talk about the war.

To paraphrase literary scholar, Cathy Caruth, history, like trauma, is never simply one’s own, it is precisely the way we are involved in each other’s traumas. What I have tried to do with my own work, as an archivist, is to invite viewers and readers to consider how we are involved in each other’s history and trauma. In this instance, we seem to be involved with each other as victims, perpetrators and collaborators. The great thing public memorializing can do is allow us to look at each other’s memory as if through each other’s eyes.

Implicated in this invite is that history, especially with regard to Biafra, could be reclaimed, not through purely academic discourse, but rather, through archiving as a site of public memory. This rediscovered archive represents not just a curatorial challenge but also a political and psychological one, the mechanics of breaking personal and collective silence. How do we remember, how do we come to terms with the past when official history encourages collective forgetting, collective migration from memory? What is it about the present that makes us unwilling to let the past go? Why concern oneself with an archive of films that is hardly known, and talked about only in a postcolonial sense?

After 50 years we still cannot look at the past dispassionately. This was the most traumatic event of our national history, yet there has never been an intellectual or artistic engagement with it. There is still unwillingness to confront the historical truth, to acknowledge it, however difficult or painful.

The debates about who was actually responsible for the war serves to confuse the real issue. To lay the blame on this or that individual, on this or that accidental event only obscures the real cause of the tragedy that was the Biafra-Nigeria War, in the sense that the Biafran secession and war are never linked to other post-independence crises in Africa. The inevitable failure of trying to construct a modern, viable African state under neocolonialism is never raised.

From film cans of the 2nd World Black Festival of Arts (FESTAC) to the National Arts Festival (NAFEST), this archive contains many chapters of national memory and history. Among the images that stand out are the enforced parade-ground military marches instituted in Nigerian schools. This archival research – including artists, historians, curators, archivists and academics seeking to engage not only with the biography of the material, but also the gaps and political controversy that exists within national memory – is an attempt to reverse the militarized migration from memory.

Andimba Toivo ya Toivo: a man of the Namibian people

Comrade Andimba Herman Toivo ya Toivo grew up during the time of the South African colonial regime in Namibia. He was drafted to join the Second World War, like many Namibians of his generation. Upon his discharge from the war, he became a contract farm worker and experienced at first hand the terrible conditions of contract workers. He always said that this played a major role in his decision to get involved in the movement to liberate Namibia. His politics have always been rooted in concern for workers and the underprivileged.

Andimba then completed his education at Odibo, qualified as a teacher and taught for a while. Thereafter, he moved to South Africa where he worked in several capacities and tried to earn a better living.

Having observed the similarities in the suffering of the Namibian and South African people, he began to work closely with the ANC, The Communist Party of South Africa, the Liberal Party, and other progressive forces  working towards the defeat of the Apartheid system.

While in South Africa, he began to organize with other Namibians working in Cape Town – less than 100 people – and together they established the Ovamboland People’s Congress. This was later transformed into the Ovamboland People’s Organisation and eventually into the SWAPO Party of today. What transpired in-between and to-date is history as we all know.

However, I would like to take this particular opportunity to confine or rather highlight my reflections on my personal interaction with Andimba. Andimba could be described as a non-assuming and highly principled personality, who had great faith in the cause of his people, and who was an anchor for activism and friends around him. In other words, he was a rallying point, committed to the common good.

This was reflected by his ongoing political activism in northern Namibia when he was deported from South Africa. His home became a mobilising centre even though the enemy thought that they had demobilised him with their actions. It was reflected in his famous speech during his trial in Pretoria when he told off the South African judge with these famous words:

We are Namibians and not South Africans. We do not now, and will not in the future, recognise your right to govern us, to make laws for us in which we had no say, to treat our country as if it was your property and us as if you are our masters.”

He refused to accept that the Pretoria regime had the right to try him and his co-accused.

It was further reflected in his refusal to comply with prison regulations on Robben Island that would have improved his conditions, because he did not accept their right to imprison him in the first place.

Andimba was arrested in 1966 and put on trial in South Africa in 1967-68 with more than 30 Namibians. We know that the South African regime introduced the hated Terrorism Act specifically to deal with Namibian liberation fighters. The President of SWAPO, Sam Nujoma, then instructed me to proceed from Dar-es-Salaam to London, to urgently set up the SWAPO representation in UK, covering the rest of Western Europe.

My first task was to mobilise international public opinion against the South African regime in Namibia and to raise awareness of the ongoing trial of our people in Pretoria. We worked to ensure that the trial was properly observed and not allowed to take place in secret. In this respect, the International Committee of the Red Cross and other organisations were fully deployed at that time to constantly monitor the welfare of the Namibian political prisoners in South African jails.

When I was compiling some details about Namibians imprisoned in South Africa, I spoke to Albie Sacks, who was by then my neighbour in London. Albie told me that Andimba Toivo ya Toivo and him had belonged to the same mountain climbing club in Cape Town and they had regularly interacted. Albie Sacks is now a retired judge of the South African Constitutional Court.

Across Europe, trade unions, church bodies, political parties and legal associations protested against the trial and maintained a watchful eye on developments. This was a major stage in the development of international solidarity for the people of Namibia. In particular, the Anti-Apartheid Movement, the Namibia Support Committee and the International Defence and Aid Fund played prominent roles along with SWAPO.

Amongst the various manifestations of this solidarity, was the decision by the Students Union of the University of Hull, UK, to appoint Andimba as the Vice-President of their union, in solidarity and support for him and other Namibian political prisoners at that time.

When Andimba was released, in 1984, he joined the rest of us in exile and undertook a familiarisation tour around the world. On one of these tours, he visited the UK, and that is where I first met him. He insisted that he must visit the University of Hull, to express his thanks in person to the student union.

Andimba dedicated his long and active life to the cause of the people of Namibia. He had a vision that Namibia would be a country whose proud people could determine their own destiny. Part of this vision was achieved during his life time, but he was committed to more than just political freedom. He was committed to social and economic justice for all, anchored on the improvement of the lives of ordinary people, to which SWAPO has been committed since its foundation.

As we celebrate Andimba’s life, one can say without hesitation that he served this great country until his last breath. There was no moment in his life when he was not fully engaged. Even last week, he was actively involved in the conference on Africa’s solidarity with Cuba.

Across the country, within the ranks of the SWAPO Party, and beyond, we celebrate  Andimba as a calm, peaceful, easily approachable, unifying force. He had all the attributes of a fatherly personality to the nation of Namibia, one who was respected within and beyond the country.

In this regard, the best tribute we can pay Andimba is to continue to work hard so as to maintain peace and stability and, keep this country of ours on a path of continued transformation and sustainable development.

* Remarks made at the family residence of Toivo Ya Toivo in Windhoek, Namibia, 12 June 2017.

Andimba Toivo ya Toivo–a man of the Namibian people

Comrade Andimba Herman Toivo ya Toivo grew up during the time of the South African colonial regime in Namibia. He was drafted to join the Second World War, like many Namibians of his generation. Upon his discharge from the war, he became a contract farm worker and experienced at first hand the terrible conditions of contract workers. He always said that this played a major role in his decision to get involved in the movement to liberate Namibia. His politics have always been rooted in concern for workers and the underprivileged.

Andimba then completed his education at Odibo, qualified as a teacher and taught for a while. Thereafter, he moved to South Africa where he worked in several capacities and tried to earn a better living.

Having observed the similarities in the suffering of the Namibian and South African people, he began to work closely with the ANC, The Communist Party of South Africa, the Liberal Party, and other progressive forces  working towards the defeat of the Apartheid system.

While in South Africa, he began to organize with other Namibians working in Cape Town – less than 100 people – and together they established the Ovamboland People’s Congress. This was later transformed into the Ovamboland People’s Organisation and eventually into the SWAPO Party of today. What transpired in-between and to-date is history as we all know.

However, I would like to take this particular opportunity to confine or rather highlight my reflections on my personal interaction with Andimba. Andimba could be described as a non-assuming and highly principled personality, who had great faith in the cause of his people, and who was an anchor for activism and friends around him. In other words, he was a rallying point, committed to the common good.

This was reflected by his ongoing political activism in northern Namibia when he was deported from South Africa. His home became a mobilising centre even though the enemy thought that they had demobilised him with their actions. It was reflected in his famous speech during his trial in Pretoria when he told off the South African judge with these famous words:

We are Namibians and not South Africans. We do not now, and will not in the future, recognise your right to govern us, to make laws for us in which we had no say, to treat our country as if it was your property and us as if you are our masters.”

He refused to accept that the Pretoria regime had the right to try him and his co-accused.

It was further reflected in his refusal to comply with prison regulations on Robben Island that would have improved his conditions, because he did not accept their right to imprison him in the first place.

Andimba was arrested in 1966 and put on trial in South Africa in 1967-68 with more than 30 Namibians. We know that the South African regime introduced the hated Terrorism Act specifically to deal with Namibian liberation fighters. The President of SWAPO, Sam Nujoma, then instructed me to proceed from Dar-es-Salaam to London, to urgently set up the SWAPO representation in UK, covering the rest of Western Europe.

My first task was to mobilise international public opinion against the South African regime in Namibia and to raise awareness of the ongoing trial of our people in Pretoria. We worked to ensure that the trial was properly observed and not allowed to take place in secret. In this respect, the International Committee of the Red Cross and other organisations were fully deployed at that time to constantly monitor the welfare of the Namibian political prisoners in South African jails.

When I was compiling some details about Namibians imprisoned in South Africa, I spoke to Albie Sacks, who was by then my neighbour in London. Albie told me that Andimba Toivo ya Toivo and him had belonged to the same mountain climbing club in Cape Town and they had regularly interacted. Albie Sacks is now a retired judge of the South African Constitutional Court.

Across Europe, trade unions, church bodies, political parties and legal associations protested against the trial and maintained a watchful eye on developments. This was a major stage in the development of international solidarity for the people of Namibia. In particular, the Anti-Apartheid Movement, the Namibia Support Committee and the International Defence and Aid Fund played prominent roles along with SWAPO.

Amongst the various manifestations of this solidarity, was the decision by the Students Union of the University of Hull, UK, to appoint Andimba as the Vice-President of their union, in solidarity and support for him and other Namibian political prisoners at that time.

When Andimba was released, in 1984, he joined the rest of us in exile and undertook a familiarisation tour around the world. On one of these tours, he visited the UK, and that is where I first met him. He insisted that he must visit the University of Hull, to express his thanks in person to the student union.

Andimba dedicated his long and active life to the cause of the people of Namibia. He had a vision that Namibia would be a country whose proud people could determine their own destiny. Part of this vision was achieved during his life time, but he was committed to more than just political freedom. He was committed to social and economic justice for all, anchored on the improvement of the lives of ordinary people, to which SWAPO has been committed since its foundation.

As we celebrate Andimba’s life, one can say without hesitation that he served this great country until his last breath. There was no moment in his life when he was not fully engaged. Even last week, he was actively involved in the conference on Africa’s solidarity with Cuba.

Across the country, within the ranks of the SWAPO Party, and beyond, we celebrate  Andimba as a calm, peaceful, easily approachable, unifying force. He had all the attributes of a fatherly personality to the nation of Namibia, one who was respected within and beyond the country.

In this regard, the best tribute we can pay Andimba is to continue to work hard so as to maintain peace and stability and, keep this country of ours on a path of continued transformation and sustainable development.

* Remarks made at the family residence of Toivo Ya Toivo in Windhoek, Namibia, 12 June 2017.

When dreams die, they do not rot: three men, one dream and the theater

I remember the Iranian-Dutch writer, Kader Abdolah, once saying that when he first mentioned to a fellow Iranian immigrant that he wanted to be a writer in the Netherlands, his countryman told him, “Your dream is large but this country is small.” A Nigerian would have told him to “cut your coat according to your cloth.”

One of the most common narratives of immigrants – particularly from the global south to the global north – is that of abandoned dreams and abandoned lives. People who must give up former lives as architects and bankers and doctors and engineers and teachers to begin again in a new country as cleaners, laborers and health care assistants. People who sometimes must erase old identities to get a chance to live in these new homes; people for whom everything in life is transactional; people who are “given stories for immigration officers,” who exchange marrying for love for marriages of convenience. People who know what it is to modify dreams, to contain dreams and sometimes to abandon them. And if they are lucky, and if they persist, they are able, some day, to resurrect those dreams. But the thing with resurrection is that whatever rises is likely to change form.

For the Star Boys, a West-African performance collective based in Antwerp, Belgium, the dream of playing professional football in Europe found its revival in an unlikely form: theatre. The Star Boys collective grew organically out of a project initiated by the Sri Lankan-Australian theatre-maker, Ahilan Ratnamohan, who in 2013 approached African footballers living in Belgium to create a dance-theatre piece looking into the phenomenon of human smuggling in football. For the promise of food and €30 per session (three hours of rehearsal/practice), Ahil recruited his first actors. Eleven came to the auditions, eight made the cut, and in the years since then, a total of twelve have graced the stage for their performances in Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland and the UK. The cast rotates, much like a football squad, a simulacrum of their transient situation, where trials, deportation and contracts mean Ahil can’t count on any performer being on stage until he actually sees them standing there on the night.

Of the fifteen footballers who Ahil has worked with, three have been deported and one has gone on to “make it” with a big money contract at one of the top clubs in Angola via a stint at a third division club in Portugal. The rest live a life somewhere in between their dreams, their hopes and reality. I met Etuwe Bright Junior, Lateef Babatunde and Aloys Kwaakum, three of the Star Boys who have remained in Belgium. Their reality is more spectacular than even they might have dared to expect, given the circumstances.

Junior, born in 1988 and raised in FESTAC – a middleclass area of Lagos, Nigeria – had wanted to play professional football since he was in SS1 (10th grade). Not only was he a talented player, he had three brothers who were successful professional footballers with clubs in Europe. His parents – a farmer father and a shop owner mother – would have preferred that he followed a different career path, but nothing could come between Junior and his ambitious dream.

At 18, he was scouted and picked up by an agent who brought him to Belgium. This agent – eager for a player who could get a professional contract immediately – was disappointed that the team he had hoped to sell Junior to would not sign him directly to the first team. “They wanted to keep me [as] a second player for six months. My agent didn’t agree.” One month and three weeks later, Junior was back in Lagos.

Junior’s voice is flat and he is as meticulous about dates as he appears to be about his carefully  trimmed beard. There are no approximations with him. Yet, he is not quite as detailed about events. I wonder if he has learned to do this –  to be precise about dates and time but to skip over stories – out of necessity. Belgians demand preciseness, even in casual conversations. Junior has gone through the rigmarole of becoming “legal” and would have had to face officials wanting dates and demanding a high level of exactness. At the same time, he would also have learned when talking to “journalists,” and other Africans to be wary of giving out too much information.

Junior spent one year and nine months in Lagos, before returning to Europe via Italy with another agent. The new agent had the reputation of getting all his talents signed. However, as Junior found out much later, because this agent was bringing in players only with the blessing of the president of the team and not in collaboration with the other officials, he was being undercut by another agent who brought in players from Africa for 10 times less; Junior would not be signed. He had the option of signing with a Division 3 team, and to be registered as a student to facilitate his paperwork, but Junior had no interest in school. Also, if he was not going to be as big as promised, there was no incentive to stay.

“Besides, after two months away, I missed my girlfriend. I wanted to go back,” he adds with a toothy smile.

In 2009, a Nigerian agent brought Junior to Finland to play with a team that guaranteed him a 70% chance of being signed. However, after two weeks, the same agent called and asked him to lie to the club that he had to leave unexpectedly “for Africa” but to in fact make his way to Belgium where his European counterpart would have him sign with a better team. “You are too big for Finland,” he told Junior. Junior followed his advice? And was put up in a nice hotel in Chaleroi, but in the two weeks he was there, he was only taken out to train once with an under 13 team. He does not understand what went wrong but he never heard from either his Nigerian agent or his Belgian colleague again. Junior left the hotel and   moved in “with a friend in Antwerp” and tried to find a team by himself.

The team he found eventually was not the sort he had dreamed of but one that, despite disappointments, “show you love.” A team made up of African footballers, lured by the promise of success in Europe, motivated by the success of their countrymen who play first division in various European countries, and unable to achieve the same success for various reasons. The team would train together every morning, and then if they got lucky, some were picked to play for a Café football team (the term used for non-league football in Belgium). Cafe Football teams are made up of middle-aged Belgian men who play mostly for the camaraderie. The teams are usually supported by small businesses and despite the low level of competition, it is not uncommon for teams to pay two or three higher quality players to help their cause. These players are invariably Africans who could have turned professional (if not abroad, then in their own countries). “From the dream of being a professional, you end up in division 12,” says Junior.

Junior is now a legal Belgian resident but getting his status confirmed was not easy. He had been in a relationship with a Nigerian/Ghanaian woman with Belgian nationality whom he could have married to ease the path to citizenship but the balance of power was monstrously skewed. Unable to cope with his reliance on her, knowing it was not “right”, Junior broke up with her. In order to remain, however, he had to prove that he was a productive member of the society by presenting himself every month to the municipal authorities with proof that he had worked the prerequisite  hours.

Taking into account that finding work as a dark-skinned foreigner with rudimentary language skills is difficult, this was some task, Junior says.  In 2015 he became the proud owner of a Belgian identity card. The same year, he toured with the Star Boy collective to perform in London, a privilege he had previously been denied. Determined to succeed in Belgium, he is taking Dutch language lessons (“Not easy to stay here and not be able to work just because of “registration.” You can’t even go to school!”). He is trying to find a balance between his persistent dream of playing professional football, working in a DHL factory and being a successful actor (“I’d like theatre to be my regular paying job, but the society isn’t giving us the opportunity”).

The first time Junior met Ahil, he distrusted him because he looked like a journalist. “You learn here not to trust anyone.”  But the promise of paid work as an actor was too much to pass up (“it was the only “black” job I could do”) and so he gave Ahil a chance and discovered to his own surprise, how much he enjoyed it. When Junior talks of Ahil and of acting (and his love of it), the flatness in his voice disappears. His eyes take on an almost fevered shine.

When he talks of how he had misjudged Ahil (“I thought he wanted our stories to make us look stupid in front of white people”) his smile is apologetic.  “I realized Ahil just wanted our stories to be heard.” And that is what the theatre has given him: an opportunity to tell his story first-hand, to dismantle myths and false stereotypes, a chance to be understood.

“Because people don’t understand, they judge you easily. They think you’re lazy, don’t want to work but you don’t have papers. If you eat three plates at a party, they think you’re greedy but you don’t have the money for food.” He gives me another trademark smile and says, “Theatre is our national team. It has made me find peace within myself and in Europe.”

Recently, Junior has landed a role on TV, acting in “Spitsbroers,” a Belgian TV drama revolving around a big football club. When he is recognized on the street it iis flattering, but to survive he still has to frequent job centers hoping for work while he waits for his new dream to become real enough to pay his way.

Lateef shares Junior’s hope of turning professional some day. “If God says I’m still going to play, I will play,” says Lateef, but in the meantime, his primary goal is to fend for his family, so he is also doing other jobs to make sure his children do not lack. He works in a factory. He has played “Café football”; he acts because he enjoys it. He doesn’t have any concept of the theatre and that is his strength.

“Because he doesn’t try to act, his performance comes off as natural. You get Lateef on stage,” says Ahil. More importantly, he acts because it pays. Even though Lateef enjoys performing, it is the money he earns from it rather than the love of theatre that keeps him committed. Even before his papers came through, he travelled with the troupe to Germany, Holland and Switzerland on a number of occasions, despite the risk of immigration checks.

Lateef is accompanied to our interview by his daughter, a beautiful girl with wild, curly hair.   They clearly dote on each other. He has another daughter, a seven-year old who is being raised by his mother in Nigeria and with whom he speaks regularly on the phone. His daughter in Nigeria is getting a more privileged upbringing, Ahil notes. Lateef sends enough money back home to make sure that, in a country where the public school system is deficient, she attends an elite private school. Lateef left Nigeria for a better life, but it is his daughter in Nigeria who is enjoying the “better life,” and who, hopefully, would not need to become an economic refugee. The irony intrigues Ahil: the fact that Lateef’s daughter growing up (middle class) in a developing country with all the advantages a top-notch education provides will probably wield more power in the future than her sister growing up in a developed country where power still lies firmly in the hands of the white middle class.

Lateef is as disciplined as he is committed. He has been in Europe since 2010, going first to Portugal with a touring team from Nigeria, playing exhibition matches. One of those was against Sporting Lisbon, but he was left out when his Nigerian agent asked for a higher paying fee than was offered to him, Lateef says. Rather than be returned to Nigeria, Lateef called his “brother” in Belgium. This “brother” was a fellow Nigerian who was – by his own accounts – a successful player in Belgium and could get Lateef into a team. He lived in Kortrijk and offered Lateef boarding and lodging. Lateef travelled to Belgium only to discover that this “successful football player” was an asylum seeker, housed in a government building from which Lateef had to disappear whenever there was an official check.

“I’d spend hours roaming the streets of Kortrijk until I was sure the government official had left.” But those were not wasted hours. Lateef met fellow Africans, one of whom was a Ghanaian man who took him to an indoor stadium where he could practice football. While practicing one day, “ a white man who was watching” was so impressed by Lateef’s skill that he gave Lateef and his friend a ticket to watch the local first division side KV Kortrijk play. He promised to introduce Lateef to the coach but after waiting for two hours for the man to appear, Lateef left. He still regrets it.

“I should have waited.”

Meanwhile, Lateef’s “brother” lost his asylum appeal and Lateef had to find somewhere else to stay. Another Nigerian footballer friend, who lived in Antwerp, put him up, and took him to trainings. One day, while he was out with this friend, he met the woman who is now his partner and the mother of his daughter. But the path to love (and invariably to legal residency in Belgium) was not easy. They dated for a while, broke up, during which time he moved in with another white girlfriend for six months. After he reunited with the first girlfriend and planned to live with her, he was suspected by “vremdelingen zaken” (foreign affairs) of “strategic dating” (or planning on marrying a Belgian only for residency status). He was interviewed by the police for six hours and given 30 days to leave the country. Lateef and his partner appealed the removal notice; their case became more complex for the authorities when his partner became pregnant.

***

Bald and clean shaven, at 29, Aloys has the looks of one for whom life is meant to be enjoyed. It is easy to imagine him on stage, perhaps easier to imagine him on a stage than on a football pitch. I am not surprised when he admits to finding football stressful. Aloys speaks Dutch, French and English and is training to be some sort of technician. Ahil describes him as an expert at surviving in Europe.

Aloys came to Europe eight years ago through the Cameroonian football academy, L’École de Football des Brasseries du Cameroun. He was one of 22 players chosen for a tournament in France. The players were supposed to return to Cameroun after the tournament but Aloys was poached by an agent and persuaded to relocate to Belgium and play there.

“I knew nothing about Belgian football,” says Aloys, but he knew enough about Europe and of successful African players in Europe to know he wanted to stay. “And I trusted the agent because he was white.” The agent promised to get him to play for Anderlecht and put him up in a hotel, but disappeared after five days.

Realizing the agent wasn’t returning, Aloys had to rely on the kindness of strangers. For young African footballers trying to survive in Europe, this comes in the form of solidarity from the black community. One of the men who helped him was a Togolese. This man coached Aloys how to go about applying for asylum, from directing him to the Immigration office to the Commissioner-General for Refugees and Stateless persons. The process bought Aloys time to remain in Belgium pending the outcome of his asylum application.

Aloys spent the first six months awaiting a decision in an asylum camp in a small Belgian town. There, he trained on his own, before tiring of the stress that comes with life in refugee camps. He opted to live outside with a small allowance. Doing this gave him a chance to experience the country more intimately, meet people, strike up new friendships, begin a relationship with a local girl. When is application for asylum was rejected Aloys was not as devastated as he might have otherwise been. His relationship grant with his girlfriend, the mother of his child, guarantees him the right to stay. He was scouted by a Belgian agent who promised to help him to get a trial with the Belgian club Lierse SK. He eventually got a semi-professional contract with the club, but his precarious status in the country led to complications and restricted his advancement in the club.

Since leaving Lierse SK, Aloys has had a number of trials at Belgian provincial clubs, as well as in Romania and England but it appears his football dream is in the past and he is investing more in his acting career. His family is displaced and most of them have relocated to the United States, so moving back to Cameroun is not an attractive option for him.

There is something heartbreaking about young Africans believing that they must migrate north  to survive and live a better life. Their hopes hinge on the promises of men for whom their lives are negotiable, walls and fences and the real risk of death crossing the Mediterranean Sea. Yet, there is some consolation in their willingness to own up to their regrets and in their desire to speak the truth of the realities of surviving in Europe.

The Igbo proverb rings true here: “Ekwue ma anughi mere nwata, mana afu ma ekwughi mere okenye.” A child is ruined by not listening (to what they are told) but an adult is ruined by not speaking (of what they have seen).

* With contributions from Ahilan Ratnamohan and Jesse Shipley

 

When Dreams Die, they Do not Rot–Three men, One Dream and The Theatre

I remember the Iranian-Dutch writer, Kader Abdolah, once saying that when he first mentioned to a fellow Iranian immigrant that he wanted to be a writer in the Netherlands, his countryman told him, “Your dream is large but this country is small.” A Nigerian would have told him to “cut your coat according to your cloth.”

One of the most common narratives of immigrants – particularly from the global south to the global north – is that of abandoned dreams and abandoned lives. People who must give up former lives as architects and bankers and doctors and engineers and teachers to begin again in a new country as cleaners, laborers and health care assistants. People who sometimes must erase old identities to get a chance to live in these new homes; people for whom everything in life is transactional; people who are “given stories for immigration officers,” who exchange marrying for love for marriages of convenience. People who know what it is to modify dreams, to contain dreams and sometimes to abandon them. And if they are lucky, and if they persist, they are able, some day, to resurrect those dreams. But the thing with resurrection is that whatever rises is likely to change form.

For the Star Boys, a West-African performance collective based in Antwerp, Belgium, the dream of playing professional football in Europe found its revival in an unlikely form: theatre. The Star Boys collective grew organically out of a project initiated by the Sri Lankan-Australian theatre-maker, Ahilan Ratnamohan, who in 2013 approached African footballers living in Belgium to create a dance-theatre piece looking into the phenomenon of human smuggling in football. For the promise of food and €30 per session (three hours of rehearsal/practice), Ahil recruited his first actors. Eleven came to the auditions, eight made the cut, and in the years since then, a total of twelve have graced the stage for their performances in Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland and the UK. The cast rotates, much like a football squad, a simulacrum of their transient situation, where trials, deportation and contracts mean Ahil can’t count on any performer being on stage until he actually sees them standing there on the night.

Of the fifteen footballers who Ahil has worked with, three have been deported and one has gone on to “make it” with a big money contract at one of the top clubs in Angola via a stint at a third division club in Portugal. The rest live a life somewhere in between their dreams, their hopes and reality. I met Etuwe Bright Junior, Lateef Babatunde and Aloys Kwaakum, three of the Star Boys who have remained in Belgium. Their reality is more spectacular than even they might have dared to expect, given the circumstances.

Junior, born in 1988 and raised in FESTAC – a middleclass area of Lagos, Nigeria – had wanted to play professional football since he was in SS1 (10th grade). Not only was he a talented player, he had three brothers who were successful professional footballers with clubs in Europe. His parents – a farmer father and a shop owner mother – would have preferred that he followed a different career path, but nothing could come between Junior and his ambitious dream.

At 18, he was scouted and picked up by an agent who brought him to Belgium. This agent – eager for a player who could get a professional contract immediately – was disappointed that the team he had hoped to sell Junior to would not sign him directly to the first team. “They wanted to keep me [as] a second player for six months. My agent didn’t agree.” One month and three weeks later, Junior was back in Lagos.

Junior’s voice is flat and he is as meticulous about dates as he appears to be about his carefully  trimmed beard. There are no approximations with him. Yet, he is not quite as detailed about events. I wonder if he has learned to do this –  to be precise about dates and time but to skip over stories – out of necessity. Belgians demand preciseness, even in casual conversations. Junior has gone through the rigmarole of becoming “legal” and would have had to face officials wanting dates and demanding a high level of exactness. At the same time, he would also have learned when talking to “journalists,” and other Africans to be wary of giving out too much information.

Junior spent one year and nine months in Lagos, before returning to Europe via Italy with another agent. The new agent had the reputation of getting all his talents signed. However, as Junior found out much later, because this agent was bringing in players only with the blessing of the president of the team and not in collaboration with the other officials, he was being undercut by another agent who brought in players from Africa for 10 times less; Junior would not be signed. He had the option of signing with a Division 3 team, and to be registered as a student to facilitate his paperwork, but Junior had no interest in school. Also, if he was not going to be as big as promised, there was no incentive to stay.

“Besides, after two months away, I missed my girlfriend. I wanted to go back,” he adds with a toothy smile.

In 2009, a Nigerian agent brought Junior to Finland to play with a team that guaranteed him a 70% chance of being signed. However, after two weeks, the same agent called and asked him to lie to the club that he had to leave unexpectedly “for Africa” but to in fact make his way to Belgium where his European counterpart would have him sign with a better team. “You are too big for Finland,” he told Junior. Junior followed his advice? And was put up in a nice hotel in Chaleroi, but in the two weeks he was there, he was only taken out to train once with an under 13 team. He does not understand what went wrong but he never heard from either his Nigerian agent or his Belgian colleague again. Junior left the hotel and   moved in “with a friend in Antwerp” and tried to find a team by himself.

The team he found eventually was not the sort he had dreamed of but one that, despite disappointments, “show you love.” A team made up of African footballers, lured by the promise of success in Europe, motivated by the success of their countrymen who play first division in various European countries, and unable to achieve the same success for various reasons. The team would train together every morning, and then if they got lucky, some were picked to play for a Café football team (the term used for non-league football in Belgium). Cafe Football teams are made up of middle-aged Belgian men who play mostly for the camaraderie. The teams are usually supported by small businesses and despite the low level of competition, it is not uncommon for teams to pay two or three higher quality players to help their cause. These players are invariably Africans who could have turned professional (if not abroad, then in their own countries). “From the dream of being a professional, you end up in division 12,” says Junior.

Junior is now a legal Belgian resident but getting his status confirmed was not easy. He had been in a relationship with a Nigerian/Ghanaian woman with Belgian nationality whom he could have married to ease the path to citizenship but the balance of power was monstrously skewed. Unable to cope with his reliance on her, knowing it was not “right”, Junior broke up with her. In order to remain, however, he had to prove that he was a productive member of the society by presenting himself every month to the municipal authorities with proof that he had worked the prerequisite  hours.

Taking into account that finding work as a dark-skinned foreigner with rudimentary language skills is difficult, this was some task, Junior says.  In 2015 he became the proud owner of a Belgian identity card. The same year, he toured with the Star Boy collective to perform in London, a privilege he had previously been denied. Determined to succeed in Belgium, he is taking Dutch language lessons (“Not easy to stay here and not be able to work just because of “registration.” You can’t even go to school!”). He is trying to find a balance between his persistent dream of playing professional football, working in a DHL factory and being a successful actor (“I’d like theatre to be my regular paying job, but the society isn’t giving us the opportunity”).

The first time Junior met Ahil, he distrusted him because he looked like a journalist. “You learn here not to trust anyone.”  But the promise of paid work as an actor was too much to pass up (“it was the only “black” job I could do”) and so he gave Ahil a chance and discovered to his own surprise, how much he enjoyed it. When Junior talks of Ahil and of acting (and his love of it), the flatness in his voice disappears. His eyes take on an almost fevered shine.

When he talks of how he had misjudged Ahil (“I thought he wanted our stories to make us look stupid in front of white people”) his smile is apologetic.  “I realized Ahil just wanted our stories to be heard.” And that is what the theatre has given him: an opportunity to tell his story first-hand, to dismantle myths and false stereotypes, a chance to be understood.

“Because people don’t understand, they judge you easily. They think you’re lazy, don’t want to work but you don’t have papers. If you eat three plates at a party, they think you’re greedy but you don’t have the money for food.” He gives me another trademark smile and says, “Theatre is our national team. It has made me find peace within myself and in Europe.”

Recently, Junior has landed a role on TV, acting in “Spitsbroers,” a Belgian TV drama revolving around a big football club. When he is recognized on the street it iis flattering, but to survive he still has to frequent job centers hoping for work while he waits for his new dream to become real enough to pay his way.

Lateef shares Junior’s hope of turning professional some day. “If God says I’m still going to play, I will play,” says Lateef, but in the meantime, his primary goal is to fend for his family, so he is also doing other jobs to make sure his children do not lack. He works in a factory. He has played “Café football”; he acts because he enjoys it. He doesn’t have any concept of the theatre and that is his strength.

“Because he doesn’t try to act, his performance comes off as natural. You get Lateef on stage,” says Ahil. More importantly, he acts because it pays. Even though Lateef enjoys performing, it is the money he earns from it rather than the love of theatre that keeps him committed. Even before his papers came through, he travelled with the troupe to Germany, Holland and Switzerland on a number of occasions, despite the risk of immigration checks.

Lateef is accompanied to our interview by his daughter, a beautiful girl with wild, curly hair.   They clearly dote on each other. He has another daughter, a seven-year old who is being raised by his mother in Nigeria and with whom he speaks regularly on the phone. His daughter in Nigeria is getting a more privileged upbringing, Ahil notes. Lateef sends enough money back home to make sure that, in a country where the public school system is deficient, she attends an elite private school. Lateef left Nigeria for a better life, but it is his daughter in Nigeria who is enjoying the “better life,” and who, hopefully, would not need to become an economic refugee. The irony intrigues Ahil: the fact that Lateef’s daughter growing up (middle class) in a developing country with all the advantages a top-notch education provides will probably wield more power in the future than her sister growing up in a developed country where power still lies firmly in the hands of the white middle class.

Lateef is as disciplined as he is committed. He has been in Europe since 2010, going first to Portugal with a touring team from Nigeria, playing exhibition matches. One of those was against Sporting Lisbon, but he was left out when his Nigerian agent asked for a higher paying fee than was offered to him, Lateef says. Rather than be returned to Nigeria, Lateef called his “brother” in Belgium. This “brother” was a fellow Nigerian who was – by his own accounts – a successful player in Belgium and could get Lateef into a team. He lived in Kortrijk and offered Lateef boarding and lodging. Lateef travelled to Belgium only to discover that this “successful football player” was an asylum seeker, housed in a government building from which Lateef had to disappear whenever there was an official check.

“I’d spend hours roaming the streets of Kortrijk until I was sure the government official had left.” But those were not wasted hours. Lateef met fellow Africans, one of whom was a Ghanaian man who took him to an indoor stadium where he could practice football. While practicing one day, “ a white man who was watching” was so impressed by Lateef’s skill that he gave Lateef and his friend a ticket to watch the local first division side KV Kortrijk play. He promised to introduce Lateef to the coach but after waiting for two hours for the man to appear, Lateef left. He still regrets it.

“I should have waited.”

Meanwhile, Lateef’s “brother” lost his asylum appeal and Lateef had to find somewhere else to stay. Another Nigerian footballer friend, who lived in Antwerp, put him up, and took him to trainings. One day, while he was out with this friend, he met the woman who is now his partner and the mother of his daughter. But the path to love (and invariably to legal residency in Belgium) was not easy. They dated for a while, broke up, during which time he moved in with another white girlfriend for six months. After he reunited with the first girlfriend and planned to live with her, he was suspected by “vremdelingen zaken” (foreign affairs) of “strategic dating” (or planning on marrying a Belgian only for residency status). He was interviewed by the police for six hours and given 30 days to leave the country. Lateef and his partner appealed the removal notice; their case became more complex for the authorities when his partner became pregnant.

 

Bald and clean shaven, at 29, Aloys has the looks of one for whom life is meant to be enjoyed. It is easy to imagine him on stage, perhaps easier to imagine him on a stage than on a football pitch. I am not surprised when he admits to finding football stressful. Aloys speaks Dutch, French and English and is training to be some sort of technician. Ahil describes him as an expert at surviving in Europe.

Aloys came to Europe eight years ago through the Cameroonian football academy, L’École de Football des Brasseries du Cameroun. He was one of 22 players chosen for a tournament in France. The players were supposed to return to Cameroun after the tournament but Aloys was poached by an agent and persuaded to relocate to Belgium and play there.

“I knew nothing about Belgian football,” says Aloys, but he knew enough about Europe and of successful African players in Europe to know he wanted to stay. “And I trusted the agent because he was white.” The agent promised to get him to play for Anderlecht and put him up in a hotel, but disappeared after five days.

Realizing the agent wasn’t returning, Aloys had to rely on the kindness of strangers. For young African footballers trying to survive in Europe, this comes in the form of solidarity from the black community. One of the men who helped him was a Togolese. This man coached Aloys how to go about applying for asylum, from directing him to the Immigration office to the  Commissioner-General for Refugees and Stateless persons. The process bought Aloys time to remain in Belgium pending the outcome of his asylum application.

Aloys spent the first six months awaiting a decision in an asylum camp in a small Belgian town. There, he trained on his own, before tiring of the stress that comes with life in refugee camps. He opted to live outside with a small allowance. Doing this gave him a chance to experience the country more intimately, meet people, strike up new friendships, begin a relationship with a local girl. When is application for asylum was rejected Aloys was not as devastated as he might have otherwise been. His relationship grant with his girlfriend, the mother of his child, guarantees him the right to stay. He was scouted by a Belgian agent who promised to help him to get a trial with the Belgian club Lierse SK. He eventually got a semi-professional contract with the club, but his precarious status in the country led to complications and restricted his advancement in the club.

Since leaving Lierse SK, Aloys has had a number of trials at Belgian provincial clubs, as well as in Romania and England but it appears his football dream is in the past and he is investing more in his acting career. His family is displaced and most of them have relocated to the United States, so moving back to Cameroun is not an attractive option for him.

There is something heartbreaking about young Africans believing that they must migrate north  to survive and live a better life. Their hopes hinge on the promises of men for whom their lives are negotiable, walls and fences and the real risk of death crossing the Mediterranean Sea. Yet, there is some consolation in their willingness to own up to their regrets and in their desire to speak the truth of the realities of surviving in Europe.

The Igbo proverb rings true here: “Ekwue ma anughi mere nwata, mana afu ma ekwughi mere okenye.” A child is ruined by not listening (to what they are told) but an adult is ruined by not speaking (of what they have seen).

BIO HERE

 

With contributions from Ahilan Ratnamohan and Jesse Shipley

 

Is there such a category as a Biafran immigrant?

Mfoniso Udofia. Image credit Marc J. Franklin via Playbill

The New York Theatre Workshop recently staged a successful run of two plays, “Sojourners” and “Her Portmanteau,” which are two parts in a cycle of nine installments called “Ufot,” by Nigerian-American storyteller Mfoniso Udofia. These two productions introduced us to Ukpong and Abasiama, a Nigerian couple studying in Houston in the 1970s. The indomitable Abiasama remains in the U.S. following the completion of her studies, but her life is never settled, as the impact of her own decisions ripple across the Atlantic between her adopted home and the country of her birth.

A conversation in one scene between Abasiama and Disciple, another Nigerian who she happens to meet while working the graveyard shift at a gas station, probably did not catch the attention of many in the audience, but few familiar with Nigerian history could ignore it. She asks him about his family back home in southeastern Nigeria, in a town not far from her own, and he answers darkly that his was lost during the war. As the two remember Biafra, she studies him sorrowfully. The moment passes but portends the survivors’ bond they come to share.

This plotline is left to the viewer’s imagination, but the little bit about Biafra, as well as the heavy silence after it, makes this meditation on the Nigerian diaspora all the more poignant. The stories untold, indeed unable to be told, hold the marvelous tension that animates Udofia’s characters. The play suspends the audience along a tightrope that Chinua Achebe writes of in My Home Under Imperial Fire, a balance between order and anarchy, between communal harmony and individual desire. “Those who visit the Igbo in their home or run into them abroad or in literature are not always prepared for their tense and cocky temperament. The British called them argumentative.”

I immediately saw in Udofia’s plays Achebe’s point, though the characters are Ibibio, and the story about the unique pushes and pulls migrants face. The silences of the diasporic Biafrans in the play made me wonder how the lead-up to the war and its aftermath affected an already edgy people, forcibly silenced. The internally displaced Biafrans, for instance those who fled northern Nigeria, had to be smuggled, hidden in the robes Muslim men wore, by sympathetic neighbors, foreign missionaries, and anyone else who would help. While “rioters,” often paid by politicians, physically killed, drove out and erased easterners, ordinary northern Nigerians looked the other way in order to go on about their lives, as they told me decades later. Blaming the victim, who was gone, was easiest, and, even in westerners’ accounts, an oft-repeated line was that the Igbo, who were good at everything, had become too big for their britches. They were supposed to be unassuming yet productive and, above all, humble. Silencing continued in the name of postwar Nigerian national unity, which forced fiercely democratic and individualistic people to submit. It is little wonder that storytelling became a weapon of the silenced.

Sharing stories, even the fragments of what remains for Disciple, is an act not only for the preservation of self and community, but also for the nation at home and abroad. The play helped me make sense of the lives of many Ibibio, Igbo, and others southeasterners I know living in Kano and elsewhere in the north today who work as doctors, nurses and teachers to help where they were once unwanted. There is both pride and humility in the Biafran diaspora that Udofia captures so well.

I interviewed Udofia shortly after she was interviewed for an article in The New York Times. That article focused on the general experience of immigration – Nigerian and otherwise – but very little on the civil war, which has profoundly shaped Nigerian emigration. These are excerpts from our interview.

You rightly say there are many kinds of immigrants. Is there a  Biafran  immigrant?

There is a Biafran immigrant.

I am a first-generation Nigerian who lives in the United States of America and I am surrounded by people who lived through the Biafran War. This war is not something that is talked about day-to-day; there is a certain kind of silence around the war itself. While you can find a lot of research breaking down the war, and discover the firsthand accounts of missionary nuns who were on the ground during the time, the survivors of war around me, don’t talk about the war itself. Some of these people were/are Biafran. They are no longer in their home country of Nigeria. They have built lives across the water and have children and grandchildren. They also have memories of the Biafran dream and some of them may even maintain allegiance deep within their hearts.

Of course there must be a Biafran immigrant, there once was a Biafra.

You started in political science and moved to the arts-what’s the connection? Is there one?

I went to Wellesley College and majored in Political Science. I really thought that I would become a lawyer. While at Wellesley I re-kindled my exploration into the arts. I started taking opera lessons and I also did a lot of work with Wellesley College Theater. In my current life, I use all these varying educations to bolster my playwriting.

Basically, you rightly point out in  the  New York  Times  article about your plays  that there ’ s a typical  “ African ”  that non-Africans expect to see. Is there a typical Nigerian and how does it relate to a typical American? In other words, how do the stereotypes mesh/clash in our hyphenated identities?

Categorizing is a particularly human, and thus particularly problematic process. We strive to categorize in order to understand and streamline a nuanced and complicated world. In the broad sense this can be beneficial, however, problems arise as categories inevitably begin to strip away nuance. I believe there is no such thing as a typical African. Many believe that the whole of Africa is a country riddled with disease, poverty, warfare, etc. These are categories that have been assigned to Africa that are not wholly true. In fact, this is not the Africa I primarily know. So, when I am asked if there is a “typical” Nigerian, the answer must also be no. You will find Nigerians who are artists, community developers, vagabonds, educators, business people and more. You will find Nigerians who are God-fearing, atheist, altruistic, selfish, directional and meandering. It is dangerous to place a category on top of a person or a people and then call that their typical. This “typical” understanding of Africa is what I am trying to debunk in my work. My work demands we look at the continent, specifically Nigeria, and release ourselves from the stereotypes that we have consciously/unconsciously subscribed to. A Nigerian may be anything and perform in any way and that defies any typically rendered category.

One of my best friends in Kano is Ibibio, and I was lucky to chop often at her house! I smelled stew during those plays! Did Houston in the 1970s have the right ingredients? How can a cook adapt her recipes to new places?

No! Houston in the 1970s did not have the right ingredients to make Ibibio food. Many people came with dried leaves and dried seafood in order to retain a taste of home and then they substituted spinach and other leaves to make up for missing fresh ingredients. My mother told me she learned from some of the other immigrants around her how to pound fufu using Bisquick and boiling water. It was nothing compared to yam, but it was a passable facsimile, especially if you didn’t chew the starch!

I am struck by how your women-centered plays have succeeded, where women ’ s art is usually sidelined or pigeonholed. Why do women ’ s stories make us listen right now?

It is an incredible time to be an African woman literary artist. The literature of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Marguerite Abouet, NoViolet Bulawayo, Taiye Selasi, Yaa Gyasi, Helen Oyeyemi and more are changing the literary world. The work of Danai Gurira, Jocelyn Bioh, Ngozi Anyanwu and hopefully my work, are re-stitching the fabric of the American theater. These women writers are authentically telling stories from a lens contemporary audiences might not have seen before. They explore the politics of nation, gender, sex, culture and illness. They tackle issues facing the African Diaspora and through their radical honesty, provide healing. Some of these authors also dare to be African and…funny! How refreshing! It is a golden age for African women writers. May it continue!

My favorite images: Magee McIlvaine

My photographic work is and always has been deeply personal to me. The majority of my childhood was spent in Tanzania, Kenya, Zambia, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. I grew to be comfortable with being marked as different, whether in Lusaka or in Washington D.C., and found hip hop as a point of common ground, as a way to connect beyond language and location.

The “Comunidad” photo exhibit explores more than ten years of work within the global hip hop community. An exploration of friendship, collaboration, identity, migration and diaspora, these photographs represent a small visual record of Nomadic Wax, and of hip hop’s influence around the world. Each person photographed is a close friend and collaborator, someone that I’ve known and worked with for years, whom I admire and respect, people whose family I care about. And the variety of locations and settings represent that. Many of the photos were taken when crashing at each other’s homes, after exhausting video shoots, or on the road; experiences that have woven together a close-knit community around the world, the very crux of what Nomadic Wax, originally a record label, is all about: create, support, and collaborate as friends.

As a result, my photos are less about photography and more about deep and longstanding friendships. They are about the memories and experiences that I am reminded of when I see these faces. They are about a diverse and vibrant group of artists. People who embrace geographic, cultural and linguistic differences, and have forged ahead to create a beautiful community and beautiful art together.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

Bocafloja is one of Mexico’s most influential hip hop artists, progressive thinkers and creative minds. We met at the very first Trinity College International Hip Hop Festival way back in 2006, and have been friends and collaborators ever since. His generosity is unconditional and his ability to make and share space, whether in his home or on stage, is remarkable. This photo was taken during the music video shoot for Memoria that my wife and I did together with Bocafloja in NYC in 2012. Shot in-between Harlem and the Bronx, this photo represents the memories and shared experiences that build community.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

Emile YX?, is founding member of the legendary Cape Flats hip hop crew Black Noise (Cape Town, SA). In a lot of ways, he is the godfather of South African breakdance culture, and his influence has been felt across the continent. We’ve coordinated numerous exchanges both in DC and in SA, shot multiple music videos together, and he introduced me to Gatsby sandwiches and Bunny Chow. His work in the Cape Flats community through his organization Heal the Hood is nothing short of extraordinary. He’s a father, a mentor, a teacher, a b-boy through and through, and I’m honored to be his friend. This photo was taken in 2010 during the SA2DC exchange/mini-tour.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

Kokayi. What can I say? One of my favorite emcees, period. One of my favorite producers, period. One of my favorite singers, period. My personal allegiance/bias to DC artists aside, I am a huge fan of his artistry, and appreciative of the fact that he’s been supportive of Nomadic Wax from day one. Whether it’s facilitating global exchanges or hosting emcees from abroad, Kokayi is down to break bread, jump in a cypher and educate. He’s a wild character, a father, a husband, a great friend; he’s family. And if you are passionate for the true craft of freestyle, then he is someone you need to know about. The photo was taken in DC in 2016 when he asked me to hook him up with some new press and promo photos. We always collaborate like this, with a mutual appreciation of each other’s’ craft. This location is one of my favorite ‘secret’ DC locations. It’s a beautiful red brick wall in an alley behind a house I lived in for seven years in northeast DC. Whenever I track back through old material, I can find many different photo and video shoots that I did in that alley. I always come back to it.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

This is one of my favorite photos. Keyti is an OG of Senegalese hip hop. His first group Rap’Adio were pioneers that broke down a number of cultural barriers and helped popularize rapping in Wolof, as opposed to the colonial language of French. We met in 2007 while filming the Democracy in Dakar documentary, though he had been close to Ben and Nomadic Wax since our first project: African Underground Volume 1. Keyti steered our team through the complexities of Senegalese politics and its relationship to hip hop. We’ve been friends for 10 years now, and his spirit and passion continue to inspire me. Plus, there’s the genius project Journal Rappé that he and another OG Senegalese emcee named Xuman started. Trust me, if you haven’t heard of the project, look it up on Youtube. The photo was taken in Marché Sandaga in downtown Dakar back in 2010. We had just filmed an accapella video in the middle of one of the city’s busiest corners. We were packing up the gear and about to head out when I snapped this photo.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

Comrade Fatso is a pioneer of the remarkable and unique spoken word poetry scene in Zimbabwe. I learned about him and this scene in the mid-2000s, during some of the worst times politically and economically in Zimbabwe. I was stunned to hear about this scene, revolving around the incredible Book Cafe in Harare, that somehow existed under Mugabe and full economic collapse. As I learned more, I realized that this was a very politically savvy community of artists. Often times using satire and humor, they were at the cutting edge of underground political activism in Zimbabwe. That cheeky sense of humor is spelled out in Fatso’s name. In 2009, we organized the first US tour for Fatso and Outspoken, two of the top artists of that scene at the time. We drove across the east coast in my Honda Odyssey and the entire band stayed with my parents in Maryland. In 2011, I had the opportunity to go to Zimbabwe and see them in action in their hometown, and to make my own personal pilgrimage to the Book Cafe. Harare remains one of my favorite cities in the world today, and the hip hop and poetry scene in Zimbabwe is perhaps my favorite in the world. Fatso and the organization he cofounded called Magamba has since put on one of the best annual hip hop festivals on the continent: Shoko Festival. We took this photo in an abandoned train yard outside of Harare, as we were shooting a music video for the song “Korokoza” (“Hustle”). Shortly after this photo was taken, we were rounded up by local police; detained and released after several hours with cameras still in hand.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

Nomadic Wax coordinated Poetic Pilgrimage’s first US tour in 2009. Once again, we traversed the east coast in my old minivan; a recurring theme we all look back on fondly. These two women are brilliant, creative, and effervescent. We have been friends ever since, with different visits both in the UK and in the US. When my wife Stacey went to grad school in England, we stayed with Sukina and her husband (the emcee Mohammed Yahya), and Muneera visited Stacey in Brighton. They are all family members. The photo is of Muneera and Sukina on my parents’ ATV in PG County, MD. Having a ball. Taken in 2009.

Image credit Magee McIlvaine

In 2010, I travelled to Port Au Prince with Montreal-based supergroup Nomadic Massive. They were conducting a series of workshops with youth in the neighborhood of Carrefour-Feuilles, and I was there to document it. This was less than a year after the devastating earthquake in Haiti, so it was an especially personal and emotional trip. A number of the members of Nomadic Massive are Haitian and for many, it was the first time they had been back since the Earthquake. Despite the physical and emotional devastation of Carrefour-Feuilles, the workshops abounded with energy and excitement. As part of the project, the 45 workshop participants wrote and recorded an anthem. This photo was taken during the marathon recording session. The line of kids from the workshop stretched out from the recording booth, through the waiting area, into a courtyard, out through the front door, and onto the street. In the photo, you can see Butta Beats and Waahli troubleshooting cable issues with the computer. Nomadic Massive is my favorite hip hop group on the planet. They embody the essence of international hip hop completely. Each member speaks and raps in multiple languages. They are firmly rooted in the multi-lingual and multi-ethnic intersection of all the crisscrossing migration paths that come through Montreal. We’ve travelled the world together. They’ve done farm chores with my parents, we’ve toured and crashed together, and they were the sounds of my wedding in 2016.

* The “Comunidad” photo exhibit runs through September 29, 2017 at ReCreative Spaces: 3501 Perry Street, Mount Rainier, MD 20712. 

Why is Liberia’s Government rushing to sell its public schools to U.S. for-profits?

When Liberia’s Minister of Education, George Werner, announced last spring that he was inviting foreign education companies and non-profits to run our public schools, our country came under the international spotlight, both in Western media and for education activists.

The Minister and the supporters of the government’s plan excitedly championed the notion that clever thinking and technology could turn around our troubled school system. However, the broader education community warned that the consequences of turning an impoverished country’s school system into an “experiment” would be grave, and could lead to lasting damage to Liberia’s ability to run its own public services and provide free education.

Quickly, Liberia was turned into a battlefield between those who see for-profit “charter” schools as the solution to the problems that plague public education across the world, and those of us who point to underinvestment and poor management as the true culprits.

At first, Minister Werner wanted to outsource all of our public schools to one company – US-based Bridge International Academies, which has come under sustained criticism in Kenya and Uganda for operating substandard schools and flouting government oversight.

Pushback against this plan – which violated our national anti-corruption laws – resulted in the government inviting other companies and providers to take place in what was described as a pilot, which was to be judged independently at the end of the first year.

In all, 93 schools were taken over by foreign providers, with Bridge remaining the largest beneficiary of the pilot, managing 25 of our schools.

Now, the first year has concluded. But instead of waiting for the results of the Randomized Control Trial presently being conducted by the Washington D.C.-based Center for Global Development, the Liberian government is pressing forward with another expansion.

In fall 2017, we are told, an additional 107 public schools will be incorporated into the pilot. Contrary to assurance by the minister that there would not be any significant scale-up in the absence of evidence, that represents more than doubling the so-called pilot.

As the national representative body of Liberia’s teachers, we don’t agree that student test scores alone should be used to decide whether to dismantle our public education system. But the fact that the Liberian government is planning to expand the pilot before it receives the results of a study it commissioned is a clear sign that it is not interested in thoughtfully weighing the consequences and impact of its radical plans.

In fact, while high-profile delegations of celebrity visitors and expensive symposiums have been used to trumpet the “successful” outsourcing of our schools, the story on the ground is much more concerning, and does not align with the rosy picture being painted by the Liberian government, Bridge, and other providers.

Investigative reporting has shown evidence that parents in some towns where outsourced schools are located are furious that their children were left without access to education due to limits on class sizes in pilot schools, which were hastily implemented without a plan to assist students who were left out.

Parents were also promised that extended school hours would be supported by the implementation of school lunch programs that have failed to materialize, leading to large numbers of dropouts in some schools.

These and other harmful impacts of the pilot are easy to find. One simply needs to go to the towns where the schools are located and speak with parents and teachers. Any objective observer will almost certainly discover that there are serious problems that must be addressed before an expansion is even considered.

But far from being serious about methodically and responsibly measuring the effects of the pilot, our Ministry of Education seems determined to increase its scope.

In recent weeks, our global federation, Education International, was informed by the Ministry that a team of American academic researchers hired to provide a critical analysis of the pilot would not be allowed access to any of the schools or the administrators who supervise them. This begs the question: what do they have to hide?

Simultaneously, senior leaders of our teachers’ union have been fired by the government for speaking out against the pilot, and teachers working for Bridge have been told there would be consequences if they spoke to their union representatives or journalists about their concerns. Our union has come under attack not just by the government, but also by those who see us as an impediment to the effort to bring our school system under outside management and control.

Ultimately the key question is this: why is our own government so incapable of managing this critical public service that it must give the keys to our children’s future over to foreign companies and charities who often seem to have little to no understanding of our country and culture?

As teachers, we have a profound interest in seeing a well-financed, responsibly managed, modern school system that grants all of our students the best chance to succeed in difficult circumstances. But we believe this is best achieved through robust public investment, better administrative management, and stronger accountability for teachers as well as the ministry officials that supervise them.

The government’s reluctance to honestly assess the effects of the first year of this radical initiative should give pause to anyone who thinks that it represents the best hope for Liberian children.