BEYOND INSANITY

The Rescue

Chapter 15

“BIG BROTHER COME out.”
“Big brother come over here quickly.” The voice, shrilled and calm, repeated the call. Zonn’s heart thumped repeatedly as he ventured outside to the call of the unknown voice. He had been placed in a shack, waiting for the final determination of his life. After all, thirty minutes was not too much to waste any more precious time. But now things were changing. He eased himself out of the small door to meet a flush of fresh air, and squinted to adjust his eyes to the immediate glare of daylight.

“Yes?” His voice rose faintly above, and he saw one of the rebel soldiers, Small Boy Soldier, standing there, his M16 slung across his chest, his right hand indicating to Zonn that he meant no harm, beckoning him to follow him. Zonn wanted to ask about his companion, but the Small Soldier did not allow him the chance, when he said, “don’t worry, she is safe.”

He followed the soldier, and they moved along a narrow pathway. After several twist and turns, they arrived at a location bothering on a rubber plantation, and it was there that he saw Klubor sitting at one of the several benches, lined up on both sides of a clearing center. His heart leaped in his chest when their eyes met.

Then another man, probably a rebel soldier, emerged from between two of the zinc shacks, and beckoned Zonn and his companion to move away, towards the direction of the main road. None of them had exchanged any communication, and Zonn realized that some power above man had intervened to save him and his companion. Zonn looked up in the heavens, and said a silent prayer.

In his heart, he kept repeating, “Lord You’re in Control.”
About five minutes later, the Small Soldier moved swiftly to Zonn and handed him a bunch of cash, but Zonn hesitated, and looked the small soldier in the eye, demanding to know why the generosity. The other, standing about four foot three, looked at him with a smile, and indicated by pointing his hand towards him, asking him to accept the money and be gone. Zonn, whether he wanted to cry or smile, looked at the soldier with surprise, and then grasped the money, and muttered below his breath, “Thank you.”

Small Soldier, apparently, with some appreciation, told him, “we’ve killed many of our brothers,” his right hand sweeping around his neck, to indicate the manner they had used to kill fellow Gios and Manos and other Liberians, “Go away and don’t come back.”

The morning sun was gaining, and Zonn felt warm. In his heart, he credited the God of Heaven for His show of mercy, which he knew many other Liberians had been unfortunate to miss. His survival made a deeper impression on him, and whatever he considered from now was deciding to make amends in God’s service. With the report of murders of thousands of Liberians, that he had been spared on two counts, were not only miracles, but an act of God’s undeserved kindness. What else could he do to show his appreciation for the Lord? True, his parents, sisters and many thousands of Liberians had been wasted, victims of the war that would not end. Perhaps, their murders could mean a new direction that he would take. But, why?

Probably, surviving meant a message for him to follow the Lord, and to make disciples for Him. It was also true that the young men and women in arms in the bush needed redemption. He remembered thinking about that aspect before. Now, he must demonstrate his calling to the Lord, and someday find a way to make some of them, if possible, all of them, and turn them into children of God.

Presently, they continued to walk away from the check point, and at a reasonable interval, another soldier, who had apparently been instrumental in the rescue walked to meet them. It was then that Zonn recognized him. Earlier when Zonn and his companion came to the Paynesville Red Light district, they had come across a man who had requested for financial support. In fact he had come begging for money, and without giving him any hard look, Zonn had conferred with his companion, and had given him ten Liberian dollars. Afterwards, the man had hung around wanting to talk, but Zonn and his friend were too much involved in their troubles that they did not pay him too much attention. Here, he knew it was a payback for a good done.

“I didn’t know you were a soldier,” Zonn told him. “We’re grateful to you.” The other had simply responded with a smile, and grabbing Zonn by the hand, pumped it several times to indicate that everything was fine.

“I have an advice for you,” the man said, “As you travel through the areas we are controlling, there will always be some of our friends who want to do you harm. And so joining the army here can be between your personal safety, and how you are treated from thence on.”

“A soldier?” Zonn’s response might have shocked the soldier, but he only offered a dim smile, and looked away. The idea of totting a gun, and going into war was something he had always hated. And yet, he realized that despite the harsh treatment he had suffered at the hands of his fellow country men, there were still other Gios that still had a level of humanity in them, and could reciprocate a good deed done in silence.

“Two miles from here,” the soldier broke his thought, “you will come across a bus stop, you can take it, and when you get to Gbarnga, you will be safe.” Zonn could not control his tears, his pent up emotions, which had sided with him when he had every reason to take consolation in it, now came to his assistance. He turned to look at Klubor, and her eyes were filled with tears too, her emotion already spent. Holding her by the hand, they walked briskly towards the safe haven they had been directed.

Thirty minutes later, Zonn and Klubor boarded a twenty right seated bus bound for the central Liberian town of Gbarnga. Even here he saw the presence of many young soldiers, some smaller than the ones he had earlier encountered. There was also abundance of weapons, and that convinced him of the danger the ordinary rebel soldier faced.

ST. KOLLIE TOWN (SKT) was the gateway to the central Liberian town of Gbarnga, the headquarters of the rebel movement. Here, barely four hours since their vehicle left the outskirts of Mount Barclay, deep inside rebel territory, James Zonn and his companion, along with other Liberians, were stopped. It was around two in the afternoon, and there seemed to be a flurry of activities going on here.

SKT, Zonn guessed, might have had not more than seventy mud houses, on either side, since the dividing line of the town was the access road, directly towards the city of Gbarnga. It was reasonable that being the link to the rebels command center and residence of their leaders, security would be on the high alert. Similarly, the SKT was the home of the Liberian Agricultural Company, LAC, where modern residential houses were located. And rightly, the leaders in Gbarnga were using the lodgings as residences.

But it was apparent that James Zonn had not thought about meeting with any experience worth its name. But considering the splintered nature of the rebels, there was everything to imagine that misunderstanding, even on a trivial issue, could result in the loss of precious limb or life. But the rebel soldiers did not let Zonn to wait further, when fifteen minutes after their arrival, what appeared as an apparent confusion was brewing ahead.

There were a number of rebel soldiers, their guns at the ready, moving about in a hurry. “I can take care of that bitch,” he heard a soldier say, and then another, probably twenty, his face lined with worry, and unable to discern between life and death, said, “If you kill me today I die and my business is finished.”

It was then that Zonn saw that the source of the contention was apparently the murder of three members of a family. Their bodies sprawled across the road, and there were still others standing by in tears. Among the dead, Zonn learned was a woman, a Gio, who had defended her husband, who was a Sarpo.

“The woman said the man was her husband,” a young man told Zonn, as the vehicle was finally released to go, “she would not hear the soldiers decision that the man should be killed, and as a result she chose to die with her husband.”

“What about the third body?” Zonn’s curiosity moved him to ask. “Why did she die?” The other, his eyes downcast, said, “She was standing across the road when another soldier called her, and told her she was a Sarpo and before she could defend herself, he shot her dead.” As the vehicle hummed along, Zonn turned his attention to the road as it raced toward them. All of Liberia had become a jungle, and there was no Liberian who was safe. It was a hard judgment call, but whether anybody would survive the civil-war could be anybody’s guess. In fifteen minutes, Zonn felt the bus slowing down to a halt.

“This is another check point,” the other told him. It was apparent to Zonn that his informer was a frequent traveler on this part of Gbarnga, and as Zonn looked him in the face, the young man said, “Our suffering is beyond reason. We are unable to understand what crime we have committed to be treated this way.”

“Wipe your tears my friend,” Zonn urged him, when he saw his new friend in tears. “Believe in God, and pray for survival as long as the war continues to be waged.”

“Yes,” his new friend also looked into his eyes, “our treatment is beyond insanity.” Zonn felt the rush of emotion gripping him, and turning around he saw Klubor soundly asleep. He felt some urge within him, but knew that till they reached the city of Gbarnga, the various checkpoints would present another barrier after another. But then he had given everything he had, and committed it into the hands of God. For, he believed that for whatever Liberia had become, God had a way for them to live. He would find it, and search for it if he did not find it the first time. Then he would lead the campaign to save lost souls back to God.

BEYOND INSANITY

Waiting to Die

Chapter 14

WHOEVER SAID SEEING is believing had it right, James Zonn considered that since his present predicament was in the hands of his own countrymen. It was a situation that the young Gio found it distasteful but acceptable. Who would have thought that while a Krahn Good Samaritan overlooked the misdirected vengeance against his so-called enemies and sacrificed to set him free, fellow tribesmen would do just the opposite. Now thrown in a windowless shack wedged on the grasslands of Mount Barclay, he saw his chances dwindling, and his sense of hope growing dimmer.

What was more, his companion, held in another windowless shack shrieked from time to time. Just before he was thrown into the shack, he saw a couple of hurriedly constructed sheds, with somehow crooked ceilings scattering this way and that way. It had occurred to him that the shacks were sometimes used by the soldiers to pass away the boredom, whenever they were setting ambushes for their enemies. How wrong his estimation had been.

This was a case of seeing the true colors of some of his people. He would not want to know what could or what was going on in Klubor's mind. How long had they known each other? A day and a half? He had just been released from his den, when providence, perhaps, caused them to meet. He had known all along that the war in Liberia had divided the people, with the Krahns, Mandingos on one side and the Gios on the other. The Sarpos, on the other hand, had just become mere victims, since the rebels had placed them alongside their Krahn cousins, and had declared them suitable to die.

A while ago, someone, like a woman’s shrieks reached his ears. It was when they were carrying his companion to the women shack, a stone throw away, that he thought he heard the moaning cries of a voice that he could swear was that of a woman. And despite her tears, some loud noise, like the muzzle of a gun had exploded and the woman’s shrieking had stopped. He was convinced as hell that the rebel soldiers had killed her, no they had rather murdered her.

His heart and his mind descended into some doubts, and he could not make any sense of what was happening or what he was witnessing.

He was becoming more afraid the more he considered some of the stories he had earlier heard from several other civilians who were on their way to seek shelter or refuge elsewhere. He now thought deeply about the young man’s description of the horrors meted out to Liberians of all persuasions by his native Gio brothers.

“The worst man to hold a gun,” the man, a large scar on his face, his right hand in a self-made sling, had said, “is a Gio or a Mano man.” Zonn had listened to the man’s tears in disgust, and had been able to ask him, “Did they do that to you?”

The man’s eyes had widened in horror and with some difficulty retorted, “the Gio rebels did this to me. They said I looked like an AFL soldier?”

Zonn, in apparent disbelief, which did not mean that he did not completely believe that his people could not inflict such a wound on a civilian of no consequence or threat to their ambition, nonetheless, in a voice full of consolation and sympathy, said, “It may seem that we are all in danger in this country.” It was not that he completely believed in what the badly wounded man had said, but with his own personal experience of what the soldiers in Monrovia were capable of doing, he felt there was every chance that his country men could do worse.

Now, he must endure his own agony, simply because he tried to protect a woman, a fellow Liberian, whose past suffering, joined them together, to elude the enemy, and seek safety in the confines of those who had been telling the whole world that they were fighting for freedom.

And now that he had been told he would die in thirty minutes, he saw his anger, his worry and disappointment returning to overpower him. He had initially believed that the national soldiers were taking the issue into the excess, and was bitterly angry at their disrespect to life. What he had heard and was seeing in this rebel territory, outside Monrovia, was evidence enough to render him incapable to understand the tragedy that had befallen the Liberian people and nation. It was evidently, a situation in which the ordinary Liberian caught in the divide, had nowhere to hide. The shack he was being kept did not possess anything worth to name. Since the rebel war started around 1989, no one had heard about any prisoner of war. In fact there was no place where those who had been accused for whatever reason were sent to be interrogated and possibly released. From stories he had recently learned, even for a civilian to possess an identification card of any kind could be the cause for one’s execution. It was apparent that the rebel soldiers did not know an enemy from a sympathizer. For, how could they have failed to understand that all those Liberians streaming into the areas they controlled were seeking a safe haven? Why would women and children, as well as the infirm be subjected to endless searches, floggings, and rape? Zonn now realized that the current war was a war determined to kill Liberians for sport, since the rebel soldiers and the enemies did not care about their suffering. Zonn then realized the grand opportunity that his countrymen, due to their desire to kill, had missed. He knew that had they behaved differently, they would have been welcomed as liberators. And in truth the Liberian people had hoped for a redeemer to end the chaos, a wish that the rebel soldiers failed to uphold.

He knew, from the manner things were going that his life was in a balance and could result in his own death, but on second thought, he had a sense of hope that God, once again, could perform an amazing feat, for his survival. But, then what would he do if his companion was eventually killed, since of course and in truth, she was a Krahn? “That won’t be possible,” he said to himself. It was not that he had any confidence anymore left in his expectation for his freedom. The delicate nature of the present situation rendered him incapable of understanding the kind of war that was being prosecuted in his country. The kind of rebel soldiers he had seen the morning they arrived, their behavior to each other, and their lack of respect to even the guns they slung across their backs and on their chests, indicated to him that the rebels themselves stood at the brink of self-destruction. Take for example, the boy called, “small soldier.” A ten year old, and the weapon across his back, the M16, seemed to dictate his every move. How could such a child understand the value of his own life and those of the hundreds seeking shelter in Greater Liberia? He was totally convinced of his brief experience with the rebels, and from where he was held that he knew death could come any moment.

Zonn did not have the luxury to cry this time. He would go in peace, and meet his maker, if that was what had been written in his star.

Then the door, creaked open.

BEYOND INSANITY

In The Face Of Death

Chapter 13

VISUALIZE BETTER DAYS ahead, was the mind of James Zonn as he, accompanied by Korlu, arrived at Mount Barclay, thirty miles east of Monrovia. Wedged across the road was a checkpoint. He saw several young men his age, guns on their backs, sitting two by two, intervals of fifty feet, from each other. He had seen enough and was determined to fill his mind with better things other than what he had gone through in Monrovia.

From where they waited, they saw hundreds of people, including women and children trooping towards where the young soldiers sat, their eyes directed at the people passing by. Further down, there was a rope, a twine, made out of leaves blocking the main road, and on the right side of it was an opened space, and a cover cloth, which was ostensibly meant to check numerous civilians moving into rebel territory.

From time to time, the young men in twos would walk across the road, and adjust their weapons, the AK-47s on their back. There were also younger children that Zonn considered to be in their early teens. There was one or two, that he had heard been called, “Small Soldier.” The first one was about ten and the second one was about eight or nine. Their lanky frames huddled under weapons that were too heavy, apparently for their bodies to carry.

Zonn wondered what had become of the people, yes, those who were responsible for the war. How could a child of nine know how to handle a weapon like an M16? How could such a child engage a trained military professional in combat? But the truth be told, the rebel soldiers over there were the ones who had been fighting against the national soldiers of Liberia. And now here they were, on the outskirts of Monrovia, he was seeing the soldiers whose actions had caused the interminable suffering of his people. It was then that he remembered what the AFL soldier had said to him when he was at the dungeon, “If he is not a rebel now, he may become one someday.” It meant that to survive in the jungles in the face of the war, he would choose to become a rebel soldier, for any cause necessary. It seemed to him that on that one, the soldier was right. For before him the rebel soldiers were not ready to welcome him as one of theirs. And again he wondered if they were some of the very ones who had been reported to kill other Liberians for sport, including their own. He felt some excitement, when he heard them communicating in his ethnic dialect. Though he had heard how dangerous the rebel soldiers were, from reports over the BBC, and from Liberians who had come in contact with them, he felt some warmth towards them. Possibly, they would be different and those stories about them might be from their enemies. Now, he was meeting them, and would judge for himself the veracity of those accounts.

Joining the multitude of people moving into rebel territory, fleeing the menace of the soldiers in Monrovia, there was a clear indication that the journey would meet its devil. In single file, civilians, including old women and children, marched on, and were directed to an entrance to be searched.

In the shed, seated on a stool, was a young man of probably eighteen. His eyes looked hollow, like he was suffering from jaundice or fever, and a false hair, or wig hung on his head. His trousers were torn on the side, and a knife, the kind used by butchers, hung on his other side. Just across from him sat stoned face, a young woman in tatters, clasped in her hands two shiny weapons. It was no argument that she was one of them, Zonn guessed. The small shed had an opening, which was evidently a window, and the top was covered with weeds, and scrubs from the area. The outpost nature of the area gave it a depressing look. All around, the cries of birds would very often break the silence and there was also some loud noises or cries that might have come from some wild animals. The look on the young man’s face gave Zonn the creeps. Maybe he might be the commanding officer, a CO, a title that was just a medal for any of the young rebel soldiers who had distinguished himself on the battle field.

“You come over here,” the soldier pointed his finger at James Zonn and his companion, beckoning them to come closer. “Nobody must lie to us here, if you want to live, you hear me?” The instruction made its first attempt to destroy any hope or confidence that Zonn had first entertained about the freedom fighters, as the rebels sometimes called themselves. Here the soldier wanted to know something about him, and perhaps about his companion. Since the soldier said he did not want any one to lie to him, he meant really to say, he did not want any one to tell him information about himself that was not true.

“Your name?” The soldier’s cranky voice almost made Zonn smile, but he checked himself, and straightening up, said, “James Zonn is my name.”

“How far you going?” This second question was intended to force the responder to explain the real motive of his journey into the rebel territory. But Zonn thought something was missing. It was no argument that Monrovia was being set ablaze, the soldiers were rounding up suspected Gio and Mano citizens, and hauling them off to be destroyed, and didn’t this soldier know that?

And he was still considering his next answer when the soldier said, “What tribe?” Here Zonn felt that he had the soldier wide open, and answered, “Gio, from Nimba.”

“You sure?” Zonn was not certain if this rebel soldier had been trained to ask such crisp questions, whenever a correct answer was given to an earlier answer. But all the same, he held on, trying to make the best use of the situation. The situation demanded that he remained tactful, and must play the ball in the rebel soldier’s own backyard.

“Can y’all speak Gio?” Here, Zonn one more time realized the rebel soldier had added his companion to the interrogation, with the ‘y’all’ which was known to mean more than one, and now was seeking further proof that the two of them were not imposters, or from the hated Krahn, Sarpo or Mandingo enemies, disguising themselves as Gios. Meanwhile, another “small soldier” was called to help out.

After some rapid exchanges of what Zonn understood were about them, the small soldier asked him in Gio, “Why are you leaving the city?” And just as rapidly as the boy had asked him, he responded without blinking his eyes. A smile danced crookedly on the corner of the small soldier’s mouth, and turning to his commander, informed him that he was a Gio.

“What about the woman?’
“I aint think she is Gio,” small soldier told his commander in Gio. Zonn’s heart moved faster as perspiration beaded on his forehead. He deliberately looked sideways, and could see the hot flush of fear in the woman’s face. He dared not tell the rebel soldier the truth, since they had made it clear that they were here, in his own words, to collect all the Krahn, Sarpo and Mandingo people for the chief. There was no need for Zonn to attempt an explanation. Whoever or whatever was the chief, and needed the kind of people the soldier was searching for, was his own headache.

“I need to talk to your woman alone,” was what the rebel soldier told Zonn, as he ordered two more rebel soldiers to stand watch over him. What appeared like gloom overcame him, but he remained unmoved. He had escaped from one butcher to meet another. In a moment, he decided against the idea for the soldier to take the woman away, and moved to act.

The rebel soldiers watched him, with their AK-47 riffles in front of them.

“Brother,” he said in Gio, “in Monrovia the soldiers are killing us because of you, and in your midst we are also being haunted like animals. What do you want from my wife, who had been there for me, when they wanted to kill me, brother?” The rebel CO swiftly turned around, and Zonn saw the bitterness in his face. Zonn’s head throbbed to the left and to the right, as the rebel soldier moved towards him, saying, “That people like you that protect our enemies, and I think you’ll die together here.”

Immediately, despite his protest, the other soldiers moved in and forced him to the ground. In the end his hands were tied behind his back, or as the rebel soldiers described it, he was tabayed, and with the woman going through the same treatment, they were tied together, facing away from each other.

Their executions were set.
“In thirty minutes both of you will die,” the commander announced to the captives.

BEYOND INSANITY

Going Behind the Lines
Chapter 12

THE FOOTSTEPS ECHOED behind James Zonn, and he felt his legs weakening, and protesting their movements. It was too early to face another danger, he knew that well. The steps were crunching behind him, and at one point he wanted to run. But why would he run?

He was no criminal, just someone who had been freed from bondage.
By now he was beside one of the many zinc shacks scattered near the Buzzi Quarters, and his mind urged him to find a hide out. Until now he was beginning to feel that his personal sufferings were somehow, if not all, at least, a little over. He had, somehow, the premonition that despite the goodness of the man who had set him free, there were more dangers in the future.

He could, he admitted, leave the city and find his way to where the new soldiers were claiming they were controlling, and might be accepted or welcomed. But from central Monrovia to the hinterland, and with the manner the soldiers were checking all those they came into contact with, it might be another or an unusual miracle, and a help from above, before he could be clear of the influences and the domain of the soldiers who had lost their primary focus of providing safety for every Liberian, and even the resident.

“Who are you there?”
The voice was louder, and he could feel his legs, this time shaking. “Lord, not this time, please.” It was a plea to the God of heaven, since he felt that he could no longer stand another round of the suffering he had endured. True, there was so much that a person could take.

With his heart panting, Zonn turned around, and what he saw calmed his heat. By now the footsteps had reached near him, and he could see the face of the person.

“You almost scared me to death.” His response might have taken the other surprise, when she said, “Fear not, for I’m also in danger, and am fleeing from the enemy of the Liberian people.”

This meeting was one of the quieter moments, for our hero. The woman, about five foot six inches, looked frail, and Zonn did not need a soothsayer to inform him that she was coming from the kind of dungeon that he had been rescued by the kindly act of God. Yes, she could be one of the voices he had heard in the dark of the many nights, in the dungeon behind where he was held.

“The man saved me, and asked me to follow you,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulders. “I was there for eight days, and as you can see, the food in my hand is the only food I have ever had.”

“Did he give it to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“I tried but he wouldn’t allow me to know.”
“Let’s pray for him, then.”
“I told him before I left that God must be with him.”
“Did he tell you he was a Krahn and that if you survive, remember that all Krahn people are not wicked, and would not want us to die?”
“He said such words to me.”
“Were there any other girls in your prison?”
“Yes, there are still fifteen more there. The youngest one told me she is twelve, and there were other old women there, too.”
“How old are the women?”

“Out of the fifteen, six were women in the age group of forty to fifty five.”
James Zonn thought about it for a moment and gave a deep sigh. By now they were clear of the Executive Mansion area, following the direction the Good Samaritan had given them. They could see the Buzzi Quarters to the left and an abandoned Gas Station sitting forlornly to the right.

“I don’t even know you,” Zonn said, wanting to know his companion. A flicker of smile swept across the other’s face, and in a voice full of concern and appreciation, said, “I am Korlu. I’m twenty eight, and I thank God that we are free from the jail.” Zonn wanted to ask her about the treatment received, at her end. While in the den, he heard, on several occasions, the cries of women, pleading in tears not to be hurt. He considered that act to be the time when they were being raped. How he wanted to ask Korlu! However, he could not bring himself to ask her, for he knew the shame that affects a woman, when her honor is robbed, and in this case, by soldiers, a people who were supposed to be their protectors.

His mind was so occupied when he heard Korlu say, “I was abused in the jail, and the others, were always abused too.” Zonn’s eyes did not betray the horrible story or rape, or abuse, as the young woman had confessed. He knew her confession had come because of their suffering, which had been together, though the women and men were kept separately. Then he heard Korlu’s sniffing, indicating she was crying for the shame she endured at the dungeon.

“Hold your heart,” Zonn urged her, holding her hand, “For God will pay your debt. Now, to be safe from these soldiers, we’ll be ok to leave Monrovia for good.”

“I wish I can leave Monrovia,” she admitted, “because I’m not sure my parents and brothers are where I last saw them.”

“Where did you live?”
“Slipway, near the New Bridge,” she said. “It is likely that most of the people there have left, since several houses were set ablaze just before our house was raided. I’m not sure my father even survived, because he was very sick and we were planning to send him to the country, the day before the soldiers came.”

“Then I suggest that we depart for Nimba,” Zonn pressed on, “since it may not be safe for you to return to Slipway.”

Zonn could feel her companion changing her mind. He could agree that since being a Gio or Mano in Monrovia was too dangerous with the soldiers all over the place, and since they were questioning civilians, and now that they had been released by a Good Samaritan, it was likely that the soldiers who had taken them prisoners might go back there looking for them. Then something bothered him. What about those in the bush? True, he heard all along that they were Gios, and Manos. Would they treat them differently, than the soldiers? And one trump card he possessed was the ability to speak the tribal language of his people. With his eyes gleaming for help, and some kind of confidence sweeping over him, he felt some feeling of triumph, and goodness.

But again, should the new group in the bush decide that he must join their army, then what? No, it was too early to think on that. Whenever it became a reality, he would find a way to deal with it. Despite the treatment he had received, he had no intention to join in anybody’s army. He was in deep thought over what might happen in the future when his companion said, “I have a problem.”

“What problem, Korlu?”
“The problem of going behind the lines.”
“Which means what?”
“I am Krahn.”

“You’re what? Why did they keep you in the dungeon, then?”
“Because I could not show the soldiers where my husband, who is a Gio, was hiding when they came to our house to kill him.” Zonn’s breathing became hard. The news from the hinterland was bad. It was bad for the Krahn people, and here he was asking a Krahn woman to escape with him. So, what dialect did she speak? That could help if she spoke Gio or Mano alongside the Krahn ethnic dialect.

“What language do you speak beside Krahn?”
“None other than English.”

Zonn felt immediately spent. He couldn’t understand why. It might signify, he reasoned, that taking the woman with him to “Behind the Lines” as the areas controlled by the rebels were described, would unleash another round of trial for him. He didn’t care about the tribe or ethnicity of the woman. All he cared about was that she was a Liberian, like him, suffering at the hands of killers and animals. And like him, she needed redemption and a secured environment. Since others had sacrificed for him to live, he wouldn’t mind sacrificing his life for Korlu.

And so to “Behind the Lines” they went together.

BEYOND INSANITY

Self Examination

Chapter 11

THE GOOD SAMARITAN was also a soldier for the government,and as he walked away from the dungeon where the young boy was kept for nearly a week, he was filled with revulsion and anger. He felt the strain in his muscles and somehow became agitated. Why? He had done what he felt was a good deed, releasing the young boy who had been brought and thrown into the dungeon for the last six days. It was not strange in this day and age that a young boy would be abducted and thrown into a prison, waiting to be killed.

Sam Dolleh had known all along that other soldiers were rounding up civilians, and were bringing them to the secret hold-out at the Mansion and killing them in the dark of night. How many young men and women of Gio and Mano ethnicity had been brought here that he had watched in his hideout, as they were flogged, raped and eventually killed? He had counted twenty, and oh no, thirty, and the number was counting. The young man he had released was the seventh he had been able to set free.

But why was he doing it?

“That’s my nature,” he admitted to himself. “When Gosoe was killed for speaking against the abuse of the young Gio boy, I knew that my role in this thing was set.”

Sam Dolleh was a father, with five children and at the age of forty five, not only had he participated in the campaign of death in Nimba County, he had watched many people killed. Though he was also aware of the penalty for working against the authority of the president, he felt an element of shame and at the same time responsible towards those innocents who were being wasted every night. He did not think it was helping the war, to pay young men and women for the military’s losses in the bush against the rebels. “We are in hell, already,” he admitted, “our butts are being kicked, just listen to the BBC.” But in truth that the rebels were kicking the butt of the soldiers did not suggest that he should join forces or work in concert against the expectation of the national army. It was apparent that his change in action was due to an experience he had witnessed during one of their campaigns in Nimba County.

The idea of what happened in that campaign always brought a sense of shame to him. It was few months after the rebels announced that they were taking on the national army. He was among nearly fifty soldiers who had been sent to Ganta, one of the major towns in the county, and to their surprise, they found the town almost deserted. Now, with the Gio or Mano man’s natural desire for music, the soldiers decided to set a trap to get all the able bodied Gios and Manos to come out from their hideouts. With the soldiers was a tape recorder that had been seized from some fleeing civilians in Monrovia. It was not apparent that the soldiers meant to carry the tape recorder to Ganta, but since they were taking things from civilians, they were fortunate to have the machine along.

As the tape recorder was activated, and one of the popular Gio songs blared out aloud from the instrument, it did not take that long when the pleadings in the song affected the heart of the Gios and Manos. And unsuspectingly, they emerged from their hideouts into the hands of the soldiers, and the trap worked to perfection.

Sam Dolleh, as he walked away to his quarters at the Mansion, still felt the pleas and cries of men and women his group arrested, and accused of supporting the rebels. Their murders, which did not spare their children, had been a blot on his conscience, ever since.

Of course, he was, and he could not convince himself that the losses by the army from all strategic positions around the country, was a valued reason to declare war on all young men and women from Nimba County.

He remembered, many years ago, when he attended the Zwedru Multilateral High School. The school had a population of more than six hundred and students came from all over Liberia. There were Gios, Manos, Mandingos, Krus, Bassas, Lormas, and many others from any of the remaining sixteen ethnic groups.

And nostalgically, he remembered that they had all attended classes together. In fact the school’s soccer team composed of all Liberians who were able to play the game. There had not been any problem then.

Then, why should it be now?

He knew it was the end of the period of time. Was the end time now catching up with Liberians? The whole Liberia was suffering. But again, after all, he was a Krahn, and so what? This was a war for power, and not a war to preserve the Liberian nation. He was a soldier, who believed nonetheless in the sanctity of human life. He was not making any accusations against any one, but it seemed that the meaning of life had been diminished and all Liberians were suffering and crying.

He could agree that what was happening would become the basis for more horrible things to come that the government could not, and would not be able to contain them, even if it wanted to. The news from the hinterland was not encouraging. From day in and day out, the BBC, the only radio station still providing news about the war, had been broadcasting the rebel leader, Charles Taylor’s triumphant declarations of what, where and how his men were making their way to Monrovia.

As a Krahn, he knew when push came to shove, he might not live. But what did he care? The tears and blood being wasted for personal intrigue were not doing anyone any good, let alone the president of the republic.

The rebels’ successes, if the BBC should be believed, had inserted fear in the men and women in arms. And what had they gotten in Monrovia? Arresting young men and women was not the right course of action. He was horrified when, just last week, he discovered the heads of five men and four women on the beach, just next to the Mansion.

He had been called to supervise the burial of “some” rebels and what he saw made him think twice on the current war. It was then that he made a vow to himself: never again would he allow those bloodthirsty soldiers to hide in the comfort of the Executive Mansion, and capture young boys and girls and kill them for sport.

If the soldiers wanted the enemy, well, they could go on to Kakata, and even Gbarnga to test their killing skills there. Killing boys and girls under cover of darkness and at a hideout at the Mansion, to his mind, was a war against the people.

Sam Dolleh, the soldier and protector of people, and a lover of mankind, decided right then that the war with the rebels was already lost. And again he knew also that he must watch his back.

BEYOND INSANITY

The Good Samaritan
Chapter 10

IT HAD BEEN seven days now since the young Gio boy was forcibly brought into this dungeon by soldiers looking for rebels. And it had been seven days now since James Zonn heard about food. He was in danger of dying, becoming weak by the day. Sometimes he wondered how he had been able to endure such a bitter experience, and sometimes he had felt that he would survive the ordeal.

He could not convince himself why he would be lucky to survive, and neither could he find the mouth to explain why he would die, and his body thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. For the young man, all meant the same. It had come to the hard part of life. Before he was brought here, there were shootings by the soldiers, and killings of people and their bodies lying down from street corner to street corner.

He had awoken this early morning, to a strange sound. Somebody was knocking at the door where he was being concealed, and glaring at the door, he could not make any mistake of a shadow of what seemed to be a man standing there, beckoning him to come closer.

With his heart panting, remembering what the big soldier had said to him, he made great effort to be sure the day for his home going, as promised by the soldier, had not finally come. Immediately, beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead, and the room that he could not see at such an hour, was becoming visible.

Then he saw what the cause was. The man, demanding him to come, had a lantern, and though his attire was that of a soldier, it was apparent that he was there for a different reason. If he was one of those who had promised to come get him, he reasoned, he would not have any reason to stand afar, and ask him with caution to come near. After all, if he were one of the soldiers, he would have known that he was tied to the board to the floor, and he was not free to just move about the room.

It was apparent that the other had seen the boy’s dilemma, and began to do something. James Zonn watched in amazement, as the man, with the help of the light from the lantern, engaged the door, and in a second, it swung open.

“Shsssssssss…” Zonn saw the man’s finger on his lips. Zonn watched as the man moved his tall height through the door, and saw that he had a dark brown shirt. Closer now, the man’s black eyes and a wiry hair increased the boy’s anxiety. But at the same time, the boy had a sense of goodness, since the man was doing whatever he had to do with care. Still without saying a word, he pulled a cutter from his trousers pocket, and cut the rope, that held the boy to the board. Right then, a flicker of a smile swept across the man’s face, and grabbing Zonn by the hand, he said for the first time, since he entered the room, “God has sent me to redeem you, my son. Today, I am helping you out of this place.”

Zonn was about to say something, when the man, looking directly in his face, said, “There is not much time. Those who are determined to kill you have been sent on a mission, and before they return, you must be gone.”

Zonn nodded, as if he understood what was said. The man helped him out of the dungeon, and for the first time, fresh air shot through his body. He felt dizzy, the result of the seven days that he had been kept without food. When Zonn straightened up in an attempt to gain his foothold, for he almost fell to the ground when the Good Samaritan released his hold on him, he saw a bowl, that he correctly thought contained cooked rice, wrapped up, and wedged beside the door.

And he still wanted to ask a question, when the man said, “There are places you can pass to leave from this Mansion underground. Take this food and after you have secured yourself a good hideout, you can eat it.” The man was still talking when Zonn dissolved in tears, as he heard the man say, “I am a Krahn, and I am a Liberian. Let God be with you.”

By now they had walked away from the dungeon and had come through what seemed like an artificial tunnel, which opened directly facing the Atlantic Ocean.

“Walk by the side of the sea,” the man instructed him, pointing his hand to the right. “You will come to a three-way interception, turn to the one on your right, and go about twenty minutes, the road will branch to the left to Buzzi Quarters, and from there you will be out of danger.”

Zonn, who was few minutes ago walking with difficulty, felt his spirit reviving, and some measure of confidence overpowering him. The idea of having been freed had changed his mood, and now not only freedom he had regained, the Good Samaritan, who, before he could turn around to thank him, had disappeared, had provided him some food for the journey away from hell.

So as he walked away in a hurry, he was filled with thanksgiving, and appreciation for God’s saving grace. He never had the chance to learn anything about the man, just that he was a Krahn and a fellow Liberian. Even in these difficult times, there were still true Liberians, he mused. What was more, any attempt he had made to know him had met a stiff resistance. The man wanted freedom for him, and to top it all, he had brought him some food. “God,” the boy asked, “what manner of father are you?” Zonn’s tears were uncontrollable.

Meanwhile, the Atlantic Ocean, as he turned around to watch what appeared to be the deep blue see, rumbled on and on, in an apparent praise to the wonders of the creator. The majesty of God’s creation, the appearance of the Good Samaritan, reinforced Zonn’s belief in the goodness of God through man. How then, he asked himself, were some people so wicked and unfriendly? The faces of his captors, what they said to him, threatening him if they were to return, and their failed attempts to choke him to death, all convinced him that despite the goodness in man, we can choose what we want to do to others, so long as it serves ours interest.

Though he was a free man, where would he go? There were still soldiers in the streets. From where he was running away to, the sounds of weapons, contesting for attention cried out in protest. But, it was too soon to dismiss the grace he had been showered. He thanked God, and blessed himself.

“Father,” he said, his voice choked, “the rest of the journey is yours.”

It was then that he heard footsteps behind him.

BEYOND INSANITY

Are You Ready to Confess?

Chapter 9

JAMES ZONN woke up with a start, and made an attempt to stand up, feeling the pain on his side. He could not, and he realized that since he was brought into the den, he had been tied down, on a wooden board. He fought his way to recognize the three men standing over him. He did not hear the door to the dungeon creaked, but here they were, before him.

“You ready to confess now?”
The question was directed at him, and after sometime, he could make up the features of the three soldiers standing by each other in the room. He remembered that when the entire episode began, three soldiers had come to him, and the fourth day, he had been told one was dead. Now the same number had come back. There was still the tall soldier, standing at six foot nine, yes, the very one always addressed as the CO, that he assumed to mean their commanding officer. The second soldier was bulky, and he saw that he was balding. The man was plump, with a craggy face. He had short, brown hair and hazel eyes. From the brief time he had come to know him, he never saw him laugh.

The third soldier was probably twenty five. He never bothered to assume ages for the other two, maybe the CO was around forty five and the second solder might be thirty nine, and the new addition seemed younger. He did not feel any attachment to the men in the green uniform. Perhaps they had come to conclude how much time remained before he was killed.

“You ready to confess?”

The question, this time had come from the new addition. His voice equal to his stout body, Zonn could admit to that. What was he supposed to say? On two occasions he had been asked if he was ready to confess, but to confess what? He had told them he was no rebel, as the new enemies in the bush had been referred to. Though the CO suggested, during one his visits to the dungeon that if he was not a rebel now, he would be later, and therefore he had to be destroyed. What was that supposed to mean?

But what was happening with the war itself? Had the government been able to destroy the rebels? And why were they putting too much attention on him? He was no soldier, since seventeen year-olds were not supposed to be in the army. But if, he reasoned, the national army was now looking for people his age, then it went without saying that the war was becoming a dangerous one. It also meant that the enemies in the bush were using people his age, and even younger to fight the national army.

So what would he say to the soldiers? He had protested his innocence, and yet, they still brought him here. His parents’ residence had been razed to the ground; though he refused to accept it, he had a premonition to admit that his father might have been killed, since his mother was already dead.

Then the second soldier pulled him by his collar, and attempted to force him to stand up. The soldier held his collar, and pressed his hands together, choking him. The pain of the pressure shot through Zonn, grimacing in protest. He smelt liquor in the soldier’s breadth.

“Hey your rebel,” the soldier told him, “you have few minutes to confess. If you don’t confess, you will be responsible for your own death.” Then at the end of the warning, the soldier released him, as he fell heavily on the board. Zonn began to sniff, and the tall soldier commanded, “When I return to you again, you’ll be dead, you hear me?”

Zonn’s tears continued to come to his assistance. The thought of being killed, though he had been thinking about it, now made him afraid. The three soldiers stormed out of the den, and Zonn’s tears continued to fall. When the soldiers were outside of the dungeon, Zonn saw the silhouette of one of them taking off the fluorescent light that sent its rays, a flicker of light, into the dungeon. From the only window attached somehow directly facing the Atlantic Ocean, he heard the shrilled screams of the eternal sea, rumbling up and down. He had heard much about the life in the ocean, and wondered if that would become his last resting place.

“What about the sharks and all the human eating animals in the deep of the ocean? Won't they have a feast when I am thrown into the sea?”

He had heard they were man-eating monsters in the deep, who would attack their prey at the sight of blood. He tried to find a way to look at the heavens, but his position made it impossible. He wanted to look at the owner of the universe, and if possible, throw him some questions. He remembered at church service, and during choir time, he would join many of the Christian-brothers and sisters to sing the popular hymn:

“This world is not my home
“I am just passing through
“Heaven is my home, somewhere beyond the moon…” yes that song was his favorite and though he could not remember the rest of the words, that he could remember the few was comforting of some sort.

He was not really a good singer, but the memories of that song, whenever they sang it in church, brought him some comfort, as it was doing now. But did the soldiers also know that, like him, this world was not their home? So, if all human beings were strangers here on earth, why would anyone determine how long he must live? And also, if human beings were mere strangers here on this earth, as the hymn indicated, then why would the soldiers fail to understand that all of them shared equal responsibility in making this earth home more habitable?

After all, weren’t the soldiers supposed to defend and protect the Liberian people? Which meant all the Liberian people, right? Zonn could, from here, see clearly the sad specter of the Liberian situation. He knew, the current war and destruction would prick the consciences of the soldiers and all those making war in his once peaceful homeland, in the years to come.

But right now, the soldiers had told him they would be back.
And what did they say they would come for? He knew the answer, and with no help coming, he waited for them. “I may go home to the Father of tender mercies,” was his consoling thought.

BEYOND INSANITY

When They Came For Him

Chapter 8

IT COMES a time when a person’s worries and all causes of dissatisfaction tend to be in their imagination only. And, for a life time, James Zonn, could be considered in such a state. It was a situation in which you can find yourself unable to understand the outworking of blind fate. But, is fate blind? If not, how come is it that there comes a time, under some uncertain circumstances that tend to draw you into what is worrisome and bad all the time?

It is shocking to even imagine why someone should be tormented because of his ethnic identity; and it is also troublesome to consider the level of barbarism that can be engendered against another person of another ethnic group, since in the case of the Liberian tragedy, it was all too clear to see how thousands were set to face their doom.

And the saddest part of it was that they were misled to believe that it was a war that had identified its own enemies.

James Zonn, as was established in the last chapter, went into one of the deep slumbers that providence, in a period that it decided to make some amends to the broken soul of the young Gio, paid him a visit. The visit, despite the dungeon nature of it, agreed to the physical needs of the suffering Liberian boy, that he followed the dictates of nature. It would be difficult for many, reading this, to understand how Zonn could forget about all his problems, and take consolation in slumber.

One can agree that Zonn had accepted his fate, and was prepared to wait for the final determination of his own existence. I am not sure if in the brief period that he had been overwhelmed by events in Monrovia, he could find any reason at all, to condemn the nation that decided he was unworthy of its residence. Zonn, I must confess, had seen enough in the brief period, and with any of those who would express dissatisfaction on the sorrowful state, hunting him down, there was no chance or situation that could have prevented him from slumbering, since I must be honest to state that in life’s various circumstances, and here I must seek yet another assistance, and this time from the Bible, that a person’s soul can be willing, but the body can be weak, providing the momentum and wherewithal for the final conclusion of the weakness of the mind, when hope seems to be nowhere to be found.

It was, by any account, a disastrous situation. Political events in Liberia were deteriorating fast enough to the extent that human life, not that only of the average Gio, Mano, Sarpo or Mandingo, but all who breathed at this period in Liberia, was also affected. So, at least the reader can, to some level, accept the tragic resolution of James Zonn, as he lay in the dungeon, facing, what he felt and considered might be his end. It was true, and no one could have begrudged him for the realities of the uncertainties he faced.

For a fact, the Gios, Manos, Krahns and Mandingos of all persuasions were being destroyed, and the disappearances of his family were enough to provide the young man the last idea that was necessary for his self awakening unto the gloomy future he saw his life. And since he was brought into this den of no return, being six days now, food was one thing that he had not seen, let alone ate. And so as he “lay dying,” to still quote, William Faulkner, James Zonn’s mind and heart were at peace.

He was transported into another era, another time of his beloved Liberia, when he was still a Gio, and from Nimba County, the Blue Mountains, where many people had often compared with the weather in Europe, of all places. For, it was there that he was born. In this dream, Zonn encountered for the first time, the fullness of his family, and laughed too loud from ear to ear that had it been a real experience, he would have wondered how could fate have been so unfriendly, and the unhappy bringer of the message of distress, in any situation of comparison.

In his dream, he was at a Sunday church service, and his mother, father and three sisters were all there. The pastor, Rev. Gongerwon, his lanky frame towering over the congregation, stood up, his right hand held on to the Bible, a smile, sweeping across his face, and pacing up and down. The congregation, in attention at the House of God, listened as the man of God thundered one verse after another.

“He is your salvation and the Rock of Gibraltar,” the pastor intoned, eyes gleaming, and feeling great. “Give your troubles to the Lord and you’ll suffer no want.” The Lutheran Church, sitting across the street, was one of the places that Zonn and his family had always found shelter in the mercies of God. And when all things came crumbling down, it was this particular safe house, the soldiers decided to force it to vomit its load.

How those words and assurances comforted him! How long would such words continue to make him happy, now surrounded by family and friends, in the house of God?

And that was when Zonn felt a sharp pain on his rib.
Perhaps, they had come for him at last.