Periodically there are discussions on Togo-L about the "market fools" (les fous, fem. les folles) in Togo, i.e. mentally ill or developmentally disabled people who wander the markets and surrounding areas looking for handouts and generally serving as a humorous distraction for the crowds.
In an early message, a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer asserted that the Niamtougou market had the greatest concentration of fous in all of Togo. Having spent three-and-one-half years as a Volunteer in Niamtougou many years ago, I can confirm that there were a number of so-called fous in and around the marketplace.
I remember Yaya and his older sister Ama who both suffered from microcephaly -- a neurological disorder in which the circumference of the skull remains small while the rest of the body grows. It results in a small brain, a receding forehead, and multiple developmental disabilities. Its possible causes are varied, from maternal alcoholism to diabetes and rubella. In a not-so-distant past, individuals with microcephaly were indelicately called pinheads. The two siblings provoked both laughter and wonder in the rest of us. Yaya was the more sociable of the two. He walked into town from Baga every day to make his rounds of the market. He never failed to have an impish smile on his face and an infectious laugh. He actually seemed to enjoy his interaction with us so-called "normals." It was only when schoolchildren tormented him excessively that he became angry, lashing out in a language that no one could understand and appearing to be demanding to be treated with respect. He never became violent. Ama was less frequent in the market. At the end of every day, however, she walked the four kilometers into town to take her younger brother by the hand and walk him home. She stopped along the way to wash out any cuts or abrasions that he may have acquired during the day. We all laughed at Yaya, but we never failed to give him a coin. As we watched the interaction between the brother and sister, the laughter subsided.
"Sangbandé bé," was what we repeated. "Dieu est là. Dieu est grand. God is there. God is great."
Other fous were mentally ill. Théophile was a fixture of the market and the surrounding area. He was tall, filthy dirty, wild-haired, and completely nude. He strode quickly and purposefully around the market. His shtick was to confront everyone in his path with an outstretched palm and the greeting, "Sima waribga!" (i.e. donne-moi cinq francs). He would not leave you alone until you ponied-up the requested five-franc coin. The only variation to the routine was when someone chased him off by pretending to try to cut off his bangala that was dangling in the breeze and unprotected.
"He wasn't always like that," my friend Michel told me. "When one of our colleagues from Niamtougou who works in Lomé comes home for his annual holiday, it pains him to see Théophile this way. So, they catch him, bathe and shave him, buy him clothes and shoes, and make sure that he is well-fed. After two or three days, the clothes and shoes are gone. Once again, he is naked in the market and back to his old routine."
"I used to hunt with him in the dry season," my friend Roc the mason chimed in. "He was perfectly normal and a good friend. Now, I don't even know if he recognizes me when we meet in the market."
"The ones who are mentally ill," I asked my friend Michel, "what causes it?"
"Sometimes we know, sometimes we don't know," he answered. "It could be the result of a poisoning. People who want to do another person harm have their choice: poisons that kill, and poisons that make you crazy. Also, if you offend or disappoint God, he can punish you in this way."
He cited a folle who was well-known in the market for her daily erratic behavior and her inability to take care of herself.
"When God gives you power," he continued, "you are obliged to use that power and to use it for good. She was given power but she refused to use it. Elle a refusé de charlater. What you see is the result."
In all the above examples and similar cases, there was an ironic cast to the laughter that les fous and les folles evoked. It was not until I read Return to Laughter, an anthropological novel by Laura Bohannon (under the nom de plume Eleanor Smith Bowen) that was in most Peace Corps book lockers in the late 60s, that I began to understand. My friends were laughing at les fous but they were also laughing at the precarious nature of their own good fortune, i.e. there but for the grace of God go I.
Treatment for the mentally ill was not entirely lacking. There were two healers (guérisseurs) in Niamtougou who specialized in dealing with the mentally ill. One was from Niamtougou and was referred to as The Herbalist (L'Herboriste). A retired Roman Catholic catechist, he was well-known and respected and sometimes traveled to other communities in the Nawde diaspora to treat patients. His regimen consisted of a combination of herbal treatments supported by mystical and spiritual elements. Usually, the patient came and lived in his compound during the treatment period. As was the custom, the family of the sick person paid him nothing until they were satisfied that their loved one was cured. The other healer was a marabout (a Muslim holy man) from a neighboring country. His techniques were more obscure, especially the herbs that accompanied the incantations and talismans of his trade, but he seemed to have a respectable rate of cure.
Later, I screwed up enough courage to inquire of my friend Michel about the fact that the folles who frequented the market seemed to become pregnant on a regular basis.
"What kind of man could bring himself to lie down with and take advantage of a woman who was so obviously mentally ill?" I asked. "It was probably by force, too."
"Ce sont les collègiens. It's the secondary school boys," was his reply. "They have no one else to have sex with. Older boys and adult men monopolize the girls of their age group. So, they grab a folle to satisfy themselves. Sometimes it is by force. Other times, the folle appreciates the attention. Who knows which is which?"
Vigorous young collègiens with raging hormones were often scapegoated, rightly or wrongly, for all manner of sexual transgressions, not just for abusing les folles. The responsibility for schoolgirls being impregnated by their teachers and for married women neglected by their polygamous husbands becoming pregnant by their adult lovers was routinely attributed to les collègiens.
I have often wondered what is the best way for a society with extremely limited health care resources and with a quasi-total lack of modern mental health care to deal with les fous and les folles.
I have always admired the way that the Sénégalese, who are 95% Muslim, gracefully integrated the strong influence of Sufi Islam and French language and culture into their own culture while still remaining resolutely African and Sénégalese. Their Islam is tolerant and humane, their relation to France is reconnaissant but not obsequious. On a business trip there several years ago, I walked into a conference room where my Sénégalese colleagues were engaged in an animated and irate discussion of an item in the local morning news. A government minister had just announced a sweeping social welfare program that was to take Dakar's many beggars -- including les fous and les folles but also those with physical and mental handicaps -- off the streets and into centers where their needs would be addressed by the Government.
"Only a Catholic would think up such a scheme!" fulminated a curmudgeonly older man to the great amusement of the group. "I don't know this young man, but he must be a Catholic. Why can't he understand that we already have a social welfare system in the form of the alms and the gifts that we voluntarily give to the beggars?* It's part of our culture, and it works!"
Until Togolese and other Africans obtain modern mental health care or, more appropriately, until they can create their own modern system that is a hybrid of African and Western approaches, we must be content with gifting les fous and les folles and laughing at them, and at ourselves.
*read La Grève des Battus (pronounced battous) by Aminata Sow Fall.
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Copyright 2008 Kelly J. Morris
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Togo Reminiscence: "Kremlin-watching" in Togo
One evening in the late 1970s, I went to Le Bowling Club in Lomé to play billiards. There, I ran onto a diplomat of the U.S. Embassy. We started talking about Togolese politics and the latest developments. I remarked that the Minister of Information was not long for the Cabinet and would be fired and replaced very soon. The diplomat scoffed and told me that I was crazy. The Embassy, he said, had identified the Minister as a rising star in the Togolese Government. He was destined for bigger and better things.
Within six months, the Minister was fired. Not long thereafter, I ran onto the same diplomat at Le Bowling Club. We sat down and he asked me, "Who told you that he was on the way out?" He reiterated that the Embassy had a number of informants who identified him as someone whose career was in the ascendancy. "How did you know?" he repeated.
"No one told me," I replied. "It was very simple. Remember that the Minister was a journalist. He had been Editor-in-Chief of the official daily newspaper, Togo-Presse, the only daily newspaper in the country, and was elevated from that position to Minister of Information. He was also one of about a dozen young technocrats in his same age group who had been tasked by President Éyadéma in the 1968-1969 period to create the single political party, the RPT, or Togolese People's Assembly (Rassemblement du Peuple Togolais). Once he became Minister of Information, he supervised not only Togo-Presse, but also Togolese radio and Togolese television.
"I am a daily reader of Togo-Presse," I continued. "It's not The Times or The Post, but it's a useful tool for keeping up with what is going on in the country if you know how to read between the lines. Under the Minister's tutelage, President Éyadéma's picture continued to be prominently displayed on multiple pages of the paper. There were frequently pictures of the Cabinet Ministers but they were always smaller than the pictures of Éyadéma.
"I observed, however, that the pictures of the Minister of Information in Togo-Presse were noticeably larger in length and in width than the pictures of all the other Ministers, although they were not as large as those of President Éyadéma. His bigger picture always seemed to be situated on the page in a more prominent place than that of any of the other Ministers."
"You know that discussion of the succession to President Éyadéma was and continues to be absolutely forbidden," I reminded the diplomat. "Such talk is considered to be borderline traitorous, even if done in all sincerity and loyalty. Even if the subject was raised by one of Éyadéma's most loyal supporters, who brought up the idea of designating a successor to insure a smooth transition if the President died in office, the person would immediately lose his job. He would be lucky if he was not put in jail."
"The Minister's actions were unforgivable," I concluded. "It was a not-so-subtle way of trying to inch his way into a position of first-among-equals among the members of the Cabinet where there was no office of Prime Minister. By implication, he was anointing himself as the presumed successor to The National Helmsman. Such lèse-majesté would not be tolerated. That is how I knew that he was going to lose his job."
The diplomat shook his head.
"You should have been a 'Kremlin-watcher,'" he said.
After a while, the deposed Minister went into self-exile in France, apparently fearing for his safety. During the time that he was in France, he reportedly gave a very revealing radio interview in which he talked about corruption at the Ministerial level in Togo. He described how, once a person is named a Minister in Éyadéma's Cabinet, there was extreme pressure placed upon the new Minister to adopt the lifestyle that befits someone of that rank. In practical terms, he needed to have houses (plural) -- villas grand standing -- and luxury cars (also plural). I had heard this previously and heard the same story many times thereafter.
In case anyone wondered how a person whose salary is nominally so low could make such purchases, the process was painfully obvious. Because a person was a Minister, he could go to a bank and apply for a mortgage loan to buy a house. It would be granted without question. The Minister would make a symbolic first or second or even a third monthly payment on the loan. Then, he would simply stop paying. The same process applied to expensive automobiles and other kinds of luxuries: after making two or three payments, the Minister would simply stop paying. The bank would not dare to try to foreclose on the house or recover the the car or otherwise try to make the the Minister pay.
Supporting this kind of official corruption was a "cost of doing business in Togo." It was, of course, a cost that was passed on by the banks to all the other customers, who had to make their monthly payments, in the form of higher interest rates and fees.
A few years later, Éyadéma - as was his practice with his collaborators who had strayed - prevailed upon the ex-Minister to return. In the early 1990s, the regime came under increasing pressure from the political opposition, human rights activists, international NGOs, foreign governments, and international organizations for its brutality, corruption, and lack of movement toward a multi-party democracy. Éyadéma gradually re-assembled the "old crowd," the barons du regime who had either retired and/or who had fallen from favor and been replaced by younger men. Éyadéma must have decided that he was not going to face his attackers and adversaries alone without the company of his closest collaborators in the building of the dictatorship and those who had benefited so greatly from their association with him.
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Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2007
Within six months, the Minister was fired. Not long thereafter, I ran onto the same diplomat at Le Bowling Club. We sat down and he asked me, "Who told you that he was on the way out?" He reiterated that the Embassy had a number of informants who identified him as someone whose career was in the ascendancy. "How did you know?" he repeated.
"No one told me," I replied. "It was very simple. Remember that the Minister was a journalist. He had been Editor-in-Chief of the official daily newspaper, Togo-Presse, the only daily newspaper in the country, and was elevated from that position to Minister of Information. He was also one of about a dozen young technocrats in his same age group who had been tasked by President Éyadéma in the 1968-1969 period to create the single political party, the RPT, or Togolese People's Assembly (Rassemblement du Peuple Togolais). Once he became Minister of Information, he supervised not only Togo-Presse, but also Togolese radio and Togolese television.
"I am a daily reader of Togo-Presse," I continued. "It's not The Times or The Post, but it's a useful tool for keeping up with what is going on in the country if you know how to read between the lines. Under the Minister's tutelage, President Éyadéma's picture continued to be prominently displayed on multiple pages of the paper. There were frequently pictures of the Cabinet Ministers but they were always smaller than the pictures of Éyadéma.
"I observed, however, that the pictures of the Minister of Information in Togo-Presse were noticeably larger in length and in width than the pictures of all the other Ministers, although they were not as large as those of President Éyadéma. His bigger picture always seemed to be situated on the page in a more prominent place than that of any of the other Ministers."
"You know that discussion of the succession to President Éyadéma was and continues to be absolutely forbidden," I reminded the diplomat. "Such talk is considered to be borderline traitorous, even if done in all sincerity and loyalty. Even if the subject was raised by one of Éyadéma's most loyal supporters, who brought up the idea of designating a successor to insure a smooth transition if the President died in office, the person would immediately lose his job. He would be lucky if he was not put in jail."
"The Minister's actions were unforgivable," I concluded. "It was a not-so-subtle way of trying to inch his way into a position of first-among-equals among the members of the Cabinet where there was no office of Prime Minister. By implication, he was anointing himself as the presumed successor to The National Helmsman. Such lèse-majesté would not be tolerated. That is how I knew that he was going to lose his job."
The diplomat shook his head.
"You should have been a 'Kremlin-watcher,'" he said.
After a while, the deposed Minister went into self-exile in France, apparently fearing for his safety. During the time that he was in France, he reportedly gave a very revealing radio interview in which he talked about corruption at the Ministerial level in Togo. He described how, once a person is named a Minister in Éyadéma's Cabinet, there was extreme pressure placed upon the new Minister to adopt the lifestyle that befits someone of that rank. In practical terms, he needed to have houses (plural) -- villas grand standing -- and luxury cars (also plural). I had heard this previously and heard the same story many times thereafter.
In case anyone wondered how a person whose salary is nominally so low could make such purchases, the process was painfully obvious. Because a person was a Minister, he could go to a bank and apply for a mortgage loan to buy a house. It would be granted without question. The Minister would make a symbolic first or second or even a third monthly payment on the loan. Then, he would simply stop paying. The same process applied to expensive automobiles and other kinds of luxuries: after making two or three payments, the Minister would simply stop paying. The bank would not dare to try to foreclose on the house or recover the the car or otherwise try to make the the Minister pay.
Supporting this kind of official corruption was a "cost of doing business in Togo." It was, of course, a cost that was passed on by the banks to all the other customers, who had to make their monthly payments, in the form of higher interest rates and fees.
A few years later, Éyadéma - as was his practice with his collaborators who had strayed - prevailed upon the ex-Minister to return. In the early 1990s, the regime came under increasing pressure from the political opposition, human rights activists, international NGOs, foreign governments, and international organizations for its brutality, corruption, and lack of movement toward a multi-party democracy. Éyadéma gradually re-assembled the "old crowd," the barons du regime who had either retired and/or who had fallen from favor and been replaced by younger men. Éyadéma must have decided that he was not going to face his attackers and adversaries alone without the company of his closest collaborators in the building of the dictatorship and those who had benefited so greatly from their association with him.
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Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Togo Reminiscence: The Apprentice Typist and the DS
In 1971 and 1972, there was a young man in a small remote district in Northern Togo who had completed several years of secondary school and then had obtained his certification at one of the many typing schools that had proliferated across the country. He subsequently signed-on as an unpaid apprentice to one of the typists who worked at the prefecture government offices. Finally, his first, albeit low-paying, job was at the local office of the single national political party, the RPT (Rassemblement du Peuple Togolais or Togo People's Assembly). The office of the RPT was separate from the government offices. It was just a hole-in-the-wall near the marketplace.
The RPT, created in 1969, was still young. The party's relationship to the government bureaucracy was still being negotiated and it was often messy. In a number of prefectures, the new party chairman tried to assert his authority over the Préfet. After many months, it required a presidential decree to reassert the authority of the government over the party, and specifically the authority of the Préfet over the local party chairman.
In reality, the role that the young man came to play had nothing to do with party activities. He became a "bagman" for the local Agent Spécial, who was the financial manager of the local prefecture office and the paymaster for all of the civil servants in the prefecture. The Agent Spécial frequently played the ethnic card in the office and in his role as president of one of the two competing soccer teams in town. He never failed to bring up the fact that he was a Kabyé and that the Kabyé were in power in order to intimidate anyone that he was dealing with, including his dealings at the prefecture office. This intimidation of people, including those who should have been exercising some kind of supervision or control of his activities, kept them from monitoring the prefecture's finances in a proper and thorough manner. They were afraid of the fact that he, as a Kabyé, might have the ability to retaliate against them if they found and reported any irregularities.
The Agent Spécial was stealing, and he was stealing rather large amounts of money. What he was doing with it is unclear. He might have been taking the money, as some corrupt people do in similar circumstances, and investing with the intention of keeping all the profits and eventually returning the money that he had taken out to the safe. Whatever his intentions were, whichever tactic or method that he had adopted, he in fact took several million CFA francs, which was a large amount of money in those days. Apparently, none of the money made its way back to his extended family in the form of a house or support for students or the elderly in the family.
The Agent Spécial was also an important person of the local RPT and the apprentice typist became his ally and co-conspiritor. The apprentice typist served as the intermediary between the Agent Spécial and the banks where they would deposit their ill-gotten gains. The apprentice typist was taking out a very generous portion of the money that was stolen in order to recompense himself for the role that he was playing in this corrupt enterprise.
The two co-conspirators came to their downfall after only a few months. The routine was that the apprentice typist would take money that the Agent Spécial had stolen and travel with it in cash to Lomé. All banking of any significance at that time was still done in Lomé. He would deposit the money in their respective accounts, i.e. part of it in the Agent Spécial's personal bank account and part of it in his own personal bank account.
What brought them down was a simple incident. On one of his trips to Lomé, the apprentice typist went to the local Citroën automobile dealership. Citroën was a French automobile manufacturer that built everything from the ubiquitous two-cylinder Deux Chevaux (not much more than a ride-on lawn-mower with a sheet metal body) to the top-of-the-line luxury vehicle, the DS. Everyone called the DS "the bathtub" because it looked like an overturned bathtub. It was unique because it had hydraulic shock absorbers that allowed the driver to bring the car down close to the to the ground in order to easily exit the vehicle and then to lift it up again when it was going to be put into motion. The apprentice typist tried to buy a DS in cash.
The manager of the dealership knew that there was something wrong when a low-level functionary who was working at a hole-in-the-wall party office in a rather remote prefecture in the North could come in and expect to buy a DS in cash. Therefore, he alerted the authorities immediately and they arrested the young man straightaway. The next day, the gendarmes and the Ministry of Finance inspectors descended upon the prefecture offices. When the Agent Spécial saw them approaching, he knew exactly why they were there. He rushed to the safe and grabbed an IOU that he had put there in place of the money that he had stolen and tried to eat the IOU. He must have thought that the IOU would be the only direct evidence of the fact that he was implicated. Without the IOU, he must have reasoned, he could act as if he was also surprised that the money was not there and that someone else must have stolen it. This, despite the fact that he was the the only one who had the keys and the combination to the safe. The gendarmes were able to prevent him from swallowing the IOU.
The Agent Spécial was sentenced to 10 years in jail and sent off to prison. The Préfet, his immediately supervisor who should have been controlling his activities, lost his job and was humiliated but not tried and imprisoned. When I was living in Togo in the 1980s, I learned by accident that, 12 years after he began to serve his sentence, the Agent Spécial was still in prison. In cases of corruption and theft, the rule at that time was that, in addition to serving your sentence, you had to remain in jail until you or your family had repaid the money that you stole. In his case, he was unable to repay what he had stolen. His extended family was either unwilling and/or incapable of reimbursing the money in his place. I am not sure how much longer he stayed in jail. His family was very angered at him and disappointed in him since they had every right to expect that he would have been a source of great assistance to the extended family by being an Agent Spécial. Whatever he did with his ill-gotten gains, he did not use them to help his family. They had not been included in and did not benefit from his thievery. Guilty of larceny before the law, he was guilty of arrogance and selfishness in his family and his community.
A final irony is the fact that the campaign for democracy and for human rights in Togo that began shortly thereafter may have been what eventually got him out of jail. The rule that keeps a thief in jail even after he is finished serving his time until he reimburses the money that he stole would be considered a violation of basic human rights. If he managed to live past the 12 years that he served, I am sure that he was eventually released even without re-paying the money.
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Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2007
The RPT, created in 1969, was still young. The party's relationship to the government bureaucracy was still being negotiated and it was often messy. In a number of prefectures, the new party chairman tried to assert his authority over the Préfet. After many months, it required a presidential decree to reassert the authority of the government over the party, and specifically the authority of the Préfet over the local party chairman.
In reality, the role that the young man came to play had nothing to do with party activities. He became a "bagman" for the local Agent Spécial, who was the financial manager of the local prefecture office and the paymaster for all of the civil servants in the prefecture. The Agent Spécial frequently played the ethnic card in the office and in his role as president of one of the two competing soccer teams in town. He never failed to bring up the fact that he was a Kabyé and that the Kabyé were in power in order to intimidate anyone that he was dealing with, including his dealings at the prefecture office. This intimidation of people, including those who should have been exercising some kind of supervision or control of his activities, kept them from monitoring the prefecture's finances in a proper and thorough manner. They were afraid of the fact that he, as a Kabyé, might have the ability to retaliate against them if they found and reported any irregularities.
The Agent Spécial was stealing, and he was stealing rather large amounts of money. What he was doing with it is unclear. He might have been taking the money, as some corrupt people do in similar circumstances, and investing with the intention of keeping all the profits and eventually returning the money that he had taken out to the safe. Whatever his intentions were, whichever tactic or method that he had adopted, he in fact took several million CFA francs, which was a large amount of money in those days. Apparently, none of the money made its way back to his extended family in the form of a house or support for students or the elderly in the family.
The Agent Spécial was also an important person of the local RPT and the apprentice typist became his ally and co-conspiritor. The apprentice typist served as the intermediary between the Agent Spécial and the banks where they would deposit their ill-gotten gains. The apprentice typist was taking out a very generous portion of the money that was stolen in order to recompense himself for the role that he was playing in this corrupt enterprise.
The two co-conspirators came to their downfall after only a few months. The routine was that the apprentice typist would take money that the Agent Spécial had stolen and travel with it in cash to Lomé. All banking of any significance at that time was still done in Lomé. He would deposit the money in their respective accounts, i.e. part of it in the Agent Spécial's personal bank account and part of it in his own personal bank account.
What brought them down was a simple incident. On one of his trips to Lomé, the apprentice typist went to the local Citroën automobile dealership. Citroën was a French automobile manufacturer that built everything from the ubiquitous two-cylinder Deux Chevaux (not much more than a ride-on lawn-mower with a sheet metal body) to the top-of-the-line luxury vehicle, the DS. Everyone called the DS "the bathtub" because it looked like an overturned bathtub. It was unique because it had hydraulic shock absorbers that allowed the driver to bring the car down close to the to the ground in order to easily exit the vehicle and then to lift it up again when it was going to be put into motion. The apprentice typist tried to buy a DS in cash.
The manager of the dealership knew that there was something wrong when a low-level functionary who was working at a hole-in-the-wall party office in a rather remote prefecture in the North could come in and expect to buy a DS in cash. Therefore, he alerted the authorities immediately and they arrested the young man straightaway. The next day, the gendarmes and the Ministry of Finance inspectors descended upon the prefecture offices. When the Agent Spécial saw them approaching, he knew exactly why they were there. He rushed to the safe and grabbed an IOU that he had put there in place of the money that he had stolen and tried to eat the IOU. He must have thought that the IOU would be the only direct evidence of the fact that he was implicated. Without the IOU, he must have reasoned, he could act as if he was also surprised that the money was not there and that someone else must have stolen it. This, despite the fact that he was the the only one who had the keys and the combination to the safe. The gendarmes were able to prevent him from swallowing the IOU.
The Agent Spécial was sentenced to 10 years in jail and sent off to prison. The Préfet, his immediately supervisor who should have been controlling his activities, lost his job and was humiliated but not tried and imprisoned. When I was living in Togo in the 1980s, I learned by accident that, 12 years after he began to serve his sentence, the Agent Spécial was still in prison. In cases of corruption and theft, the rule at that time was that, in addition to serving your sentence, you had to remain in jail until you or your family had repaid the money that you stole. In his case, he was unable to repay what he had stolen. His extended family was either unwilling and/or incapable of reimbursing the money in his place. I am not sure how much longer he stayed in jail. His family was very angered at him and disappointed in him since they had every right to expect that he would have been a source of great assistance to the extended family by being an Agent Spécial. Whatever he did with his ill-gotten gains, he did not use them to help his family. They had not been included in and did not benefit from his thievery. Guilty of larceny before the law, he was guilty of arrogance and selfishness in his family and his community.
A final irony is the fact that the campaign for democracy and for human rights in Togo that began shortly thereafter may have been what eventually got him out of jail. The rule that keeps a thief in jail even after he is finished serving his time until he reimburses the money that he stole would be considered a violation of basic human rights. If he managed to live past the 12 years that he served, I am sure that he was eventually released even without re-paying the money.
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Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2007
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Essay: African Languages - A Veritable Babel?
During the last few months, I have been working on three writing projects relating to Togo and Bénin. One of the subjects that I have been addressing is the question of each country's languages and dialects. The conventional wisdom (CW) has it that each one of these three countries is characterized by the existence of dozens upon dozens of languages within their borders. Furthermore, the CW is that the existence of this plethora of languages is a major barrier to communication and, as such, is an obstacle to development. Togo, for example, was supposed to have 55 distinct languages as of the time that I first started learning about the country in 1968 when I was invited to train as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Togo. This characterization of the languages of Togo, as well as of the languages of all of its neighboring countries, served as one of the justifications or as a rationalization for colonialism. It has also helped to explain the ease with which the former colonial masters continued to pursue their interests in their former colonies. This factor is of more than passing consequence. The continued use of the colonial languages - English, French, and Portuguese - as official languages of the independent African states is a tool for efficiency and a facilitator of communications. It also helps to perpetuate the former colonies' political, economic, and cultural ties to their former colonial masters.
In contrast, another analysis of the countries' language profiles comes from the translators and linguistic experts of SIL International (a faith-based organization that studies, documents, and assists in developing the world’s lesser-known languages) and its language database, the Ethnologue.com website. Their interests are quite different from those that are associated with the colonial and neo-colonial system. The mission of Ethnologue.com is ultimately to translate the Bible into all of the world's languages, including the most obscure among them. They believe that everyone without exception should have access to the Bible and to the Christian religion in their own native language. Ethnologue.com is the "gold standard" when it comes to the documentation and classification of African languages. It wants to reach each and every person possible in his or her own language, regardless of how few are the speakers of that language. This strategy tends to emphasize that which makes a language or dialect distinct and different from related languages rather than that which is similar. Ethnologue.com enumerates 39 distinct languages for Togo and that is still quite a large number for such a small country.
I assembled a brief article on each language and comprehensive articles on groups and clusters of languages that are important in each of the countries. I approached the subject of languages as if the cup were half-full instead of half empty, i.e. I looked for what the languages had in common, not just what was different. I concluded that there are "key" clusters of languages that are as similar to each other as the Scandinavian languages or the languages of the Iberian peninsula are to each other. For example, the Scandinavian languages consist of five major languages and several other tiny languages. Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian are mutually intelligible, and are very close to the Icelandic and Faroese languages. For a variety of historical and cultural reasons, Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians insist that they speak their own languages and rather than dialects of a larger Scandinavian language. The linguistic situation is similar on the Iberian Peninsula, where Spanish (Castilian), Catalan/Valencian, Gallician, and Portuguese and their dialects form a cluster of languages with varying degrees of mutual intelligibility.
Similarly, the Gbé languages are a "key cluster" of languages in the Kwa language group in West Africa. The Gbé languages are spoken from the area of Southwestern Nigeria along the border with Bénin all the way to the Volta River in Ghana. These languages include Goun, that is spoken in Southwestern Nigeria and Southeastern Bénin in and around Porto Novo; Fon, that is spoken in Southern Bénin and in some communities in Southern Togo; Adja, that is spoken in the Mono River Valley in Southwestern Bénin and Southeastern Togo; Mina or Guingbé, that is spoken in the coastal areas of Togo and in Southwestern Bénin and is used as a market language in Togo and Bénin; Éwé, that is the largest single Gbé language including 3 to 4 millions of speakers in Southern Togo and in the Volta region of Ghana; and a number of other languages, including Anlo and Waci (very important versions of Éwé), Kpla, Péda, and others.
Among the Gbé languages, the mutual intelligibility of languages is often very high, on the order of 85 to 95%, for languages whose speakers live in close physical proximity. Gbé languages that are separated by significant distances may be mutually intelligible only to the extent of 65 to 70%. Gbé-speakers number at least 8 million native speakers total in the geographical areas cited above. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of other Togolese and Béninese speak a Gbé language as their second or third language. Éwé is one of Togo's two national languages and is one of the government-sponsored languages in Ghana. A non-native speaker of a Gbé language will find it more difficult to understand other languages in the cluster than a native-speaker.
In the Central and Kara Regions of Togo and in nearby border areas of Bénin, a similar but less dramatic situation prevails. A "key cluster" of languages - Grusi, East of the Oti-Volta languages in the Gur language group - includes several languages of the same origin. These include Kabyé, Lama (Lamba), Tem (Cotokoli), Lukpa (Logba or Dompago), Bago-Kussuntu, and Delo (Ntribou). The most widely spoken of the languages in this cluster is Kabyé and it is a national language of Togo.
Therefore, it can be argued forcefully that the coastal areas of the Bight of Bénin countries where Gbé languages are spoken and the interior regions of Togo and Bénin where Grusi, East languages prevail are no more and no less a linguistic Babel than Scandinavia or the Iberian Peninsula.
In addition to the phenomenon of the "key cluster," there are certain languages with large numbers of both native and non-native speakers, e.g. Yoruba with 20 million native speakers in Nigeria, Bénin, and Togo and 2 million non-native speakers. Furthermore, there are other languages that have numerous native speakers and are also "lingua francas," such as Hausa. Hausa has over 24 million native speakers in Niger and in Northern Nigeria and at least 15 million additional speakers throughout West and Central Africa.
Giving African languages their due is long overdue. African languages are not an impediment to development. Rather, the persistence of misconceptions about them and the inadequacy of the resources devoted to the development and use of African languages is the obstacle.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
In contrast, another analysis of the countries' language profiles comes from the translators and linguistic experts of SIL International (a faith-based organization that studies, documents, and assists in developing the world’s lesser-known languages) and its language database, the Ethnologue.com website. Their interests are quite different from those that are associated with the colonial and neo-colonial system. The mission of Ethnologue.com is ultimately to translate the Bible into all of the world's languages, including the most obscure among them. They believe that everyone without exception should have access to the Bible and to the Christian religion in their own native language. Ethnologue.com is the "gold standard" when it comes to the documentation and classification of African languages. It wants to reach each and every person possible in his or her own language, regardless of how few are the speakers of that language. This strategy tends to emphasize that which makes a language or dialect distinct and different from related languages rather than that which is similar. Ethnologue.com enumerates 39 distinct languages for Togo and that is still quite a large number for such a small country.
I assembled a brief article on each language and comprehensive articles on groups and clusters of languages that are important in each of the countries. I approached the subject of languages as if the cup were half-full instead of half empty, i.e. I looked for what the languages had in common, not just what was different. I concluded that there are "key" clusters of languages that are as similar to each other as the Scandinavian languages or the languages of the Iberian peninsula are to each other. For example, the Scandinavian languages consist of five major languages and several other tiny languages. Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian are mutually intelligible, and are very close to the Icelandic and Faroese languages. For a variety of historical and cultural reasons, Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians insist that they speak their own languages and rather than dialects of a larger Scandinavian language. The linguistic situation is similar on the Iberian Peninsula, where Spanish (Castilian), Catalan/Valencian, Gallician, and Portuguese and their dialects form a cluster of languages with varying degrees of mutual intelligibility.
Similarly, the Gbé languages are a "key cluster" of languages in the Kwa language group in West Africa. The Gbé languages are spoken from the area of Southwestern Nigeria along the border with Bénin all the way to the Volta River in Ghana. These languages include Goun, that is spoken in Southwestern Nigeria and Southeastern Bénin in and around Porto Novo; Fon, that is spoken in Southern Bénin and in some communities in Southern Togo; Adja, that is spoken in the Mono River Valley in Southwestern Bénin and Southeastern Togo; Mina or Guingbé, that is spoken in the coastal areas of Togo and in Southwestern Bénin and is used as a market language in Togo and Bénin; Éwé, that is the largest single Gbé language including 3 to 4 millions of speakers in Southern Togo and in the Volta region of Ghana; and a number of other languages, including Anlo and Waci (very important versions of Éwé), Kpla, Péda, and others.
Among the Gbé languages, the mutual intelligibility of languages is often very high, on the order of 85 to 95%, for languages whose speakers live in close physical proximity. Gbé languages that are separated by significant distances may be mutually intelligible only to the extent of 65 to 70%. Gbé-speakers number at least 8 million native speakers total in the geographical areas cited above. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of other Togolese and Béninese speak a Gbé language as their second or third language. Éwé is one of Togo's two national languages and is one of the government-sponsored languages in Ghana. A non-native speaker of a Gbé language will find it more difficult to understand other languages in the cluster than a native-speaker.
In the Central and Kara Regions of Togo and in nearby border areas of Bénin, a similar but less dramatic situation prevails. A "key cluster" of languages - Grusi, East of the Oti-Volta languages in the Gur language group - includes several languages of the same origin. These include Kabyé, Lama (Lamba), Tem (Cotokoli), Lukpa (Logba or Dompago), Bago-Kussuntu, and Delo (Ntribou). The most widely spoken of the languages in this cluster is Kabyé and it is a national language of Togo.
Therefore, it can be argued forcefully that the coastal areas of the Bight of Bénin countries where Gbé languages are spoken and the interior regions of Togo and Bénin where Grusi, East languages prevail are no more and no less a linguistic Babel than Scandinavia or the Iberian Peninsula.
In addition to the phenomenon of the "key cluster," there are certain languages with large numbers of both native and non-native speakers, e.g. Yoruba with 20 million native speakers in Nigeria, Bénin, and Togo and 2 million non-native speakers. Furthermore, there are other languages that have numerous native speakers and are also "lingua francas," such as Hausa. Hausa has over 24 million native speakers in Niger and in Northern Nigeria and at least 15 million additional speakers throughout West and Central Africa.
Giving African languages their due is long overdue. African languages are not an impediment to development. Rather, the persistence of misconceptions about them and the inadequacy of the resources devoted to the development and use of African languages is the obstacle.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Togo Reminiscence: Con Men as Performance Artists
During the late 1970s and the 1980s, Togolese TV was very limited in its offerings and not terribly entertaining. A good outdoor antenna might bring in the broadcasts from Accra or Cotonou or even Lagos, but the atmospheric conditions had to be right. Even when one succeeded, there was no guarantee that the fare would be any more entertaining or informative that that of Togolese television. In those days, long before reality TV shows, there was in fact, a kind of entertainment that was very active and interactive and much more amusing than anything that I could have found on the single channel of the State television. What I enjoyed the most was a form of performance art where acting jobs are done by con men in order to earn their living.
Over the course of the 1970s and 1980s, I ran onto many con artists who had all kinds of stories and subterfuges in order to try to extract money from me or anyone else who would buy their story. There were, however, three perpetrators of this performance art whom I appreciated immensely. I looked forward to their performances. I will call them:
"My mother is dead."
The first performer I call "my mother is dead," simply because these are the first words out of his mouth whenever he knocks on my door. He comes in to give us his sad story and ask for some financial assistance. I first encountered him when I was living in Nyékonakpoé. He arrived at my house, looking very distraught and sweating profusely. I am reminded of the way that comedian Chris Rock described singer Jermaine Jackson, the elder brother of pop superstar Michael Jackson. Jermaine, he said, habitually sweats more than basketball star Patrick Ewing in the fourth quarter of an NBA basketball game. So it was with our visitor. He explained to us that he was our neighbor, and that he lived in a house facing the street behind us. It was evening, when all the banks and other such businesses are closed. He had just read received word that his elderly mother had died in Tsevié. This had caught him entirely off-guard. He needed to go to Tsevié that evening to begin making arrangements for her funeral since he was the eldest child in her family. Unfortunately, he had no money. He asked me for some assistance in getting out to save the day that evening and I gave him a small amount.
This was not to be my last encounter with my new friend. A year or so later, we moved to a house in Tokoin Casablanca. We had not been there long when, lo and behold, who should arrive at our front door one evening but our friend from Nyékonakpoé. His rap was the same. His appearance was the same. He was excited, distracted, and once again sweating profusely. He repeated his tale of woe. His mother had just died in Tsevié, and he needed to return to commence making arrangements for her funeral and disposing of her property. He seemed not to recognize me. Perhaps he just assumed that I did not recognize him. So again, after spending a few minutes and enjoying his performance, I gave him a small contribution and wished him Godspeed to Tsevié.
I was transferred to Washington, DC, and departed Togo in April of 1979. I returned to Lomé in 1982 and moved with my family to a home in Kodzoviakopé. It was not long before our old friend visited us once again. I am your neighbor, he said. I live on the street behind you. I've just received word that my mother has died in Tsevié, and I must return immediately to begin making arrangements. Once more, after commiserating with our neighbor, and finally making one more contribution to his cause he was on his way - presumably to bury his dead mother.
By 1984, we had moved again - this time, to the Tokoin-Hôpital neighborhood. It is, as the name suggests, that area of Tokoin that is adjacent to the hospital at Tokoin. Our friend visited us one more time. I sat down with him and enjoyed the latest embellishments on his sad tale of woe. Finally, I told him that I was surprised that he could keep on living, so overcome with grief he must be at having his mother die four times - not once, not twice, not even three times, but four times. To make matters worse, each time she died in the evening when he had no access to cash in order to make preparations for what was going to be this time the old lady's fourth burial. I reminded him that she died when we lived in Nyékonakpoé. She died again when we lived in Tokoin-Casablanca. She died one more time when we lived in Kodzoviakopé. And now for the fourth, and what I hope will have to be the last time - for her sake, if not for yours - she has died when we are living here in Tokoin-Hôpital. You must be overwhelmed, I said, or you must be very strong. It must be the latter, I said. You must come from good stock. With a mother who has been able to withstand dying and being buried already three times over the last few years, you must come from a very hardy group of people. God bless you and good luck. I played out the scene with a straight face, and so did he. I have not seen him since the fourth time.
"Le Chef de Douanes!"
The second player in the pantheon of entertaining con men is "the Director of Customs." When I was living in Cotonou, Bénin, for a few months in 1983, a man rushed up to me one day just after I had just parked my car in the downtown commercial district to do some shopping.
"It's me, the Director of Customs! C'est moi, le Chef de Douanes! Don't you remember?" he said. "I helped you at the border crossing the last time." It was a pretty high-percentage gamble that he was making. It was highly likely that any "European" with a car had crossed the border recently. Since the police and customs agents are the ones who cause border delays, they are also the ones who can and do help those who are in a hurry to avoid the delays and go on their way after paying a gratuity as an expression of their appreciation.
"I came in from the border," he said. "And I was in such a hurry I left my wallet and my gasoline vouchers at home. The Land Rover's gas tank is on 'Empty' and it is parked a couple of blocks away. Can you help me with some gas money?"
I commiserated and made a small contribution to the cause.
Months later, I moved back to Lomé. One day after I had just parked my car in the downtown commercial district to do some shopping, who but my new buddy, the "Chef de Douanes" rushed up to me. The rap was still the same, almost word-for-word. After all, why fool with success?
"I am the Director of Customs! Le Chef de Douanes! Don't you remember? I helped you at the border crossing the last time."
Before he could continue, I jumped in.
"That is just fantastic," I exclaimed. "It is more than that - it is extraordinary. I knew that you were the 'Chef de Douanes' in Bénin, but now you are also the 'Chef de Douanes' in Togo? That is just unheard-of. How did you do it? I have heard of people occupying two jobs before, but it is absolutely unprecedented to occupy two jobs in the government service of two different countries, unless of course, we are talking about espionage or sabotage. But, you, here you are occupying two positions publicly at the same time. What a great step forward for Togo-Bénin friendship and solidarity! It saves money, too. After all, really, why must their be two 'Chefs de Douanes' at one border crossing point? One 'Chef' is all that is needed, is it not so? It is brilliant. Congratulations."
By the time that I had played my little role in this piece of street improvisational theater, the "Chef" had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and he beat a quick retreat in order to find some other unsuspecting soul.
"Eyadéma's Little Brother"
One weekend day in the early 1980s, I took my children to the swimming pool of one of Lomé's state-owned tourist hotels. As I was watching the chidren, a young Togolese man was leaning against a nearby wall. He was trying to get my attention for some reason. Not recognizing him, I politely nodded but kept my attention on the kids. Finally he sauntered over and began to speak in the manner of a member of an elite who was engaging in a bit of noblesse oblige by taking an interest in me.
"Mais, vous ne me reconnaissez pas?" he asked. "You don't recognize me? C'est moi le petit frère d'Eyadéma! I'm Eyadéma's little brother!"
It could be true, I thought. The President had any number of ne'er-do-well sons and other cocky young relatives possessed of arrogance and oozing a sense of entitlement. He had just returned from a stint at the university in Dakar, Sénégal, he said. He decided to try to impress me by dropping the names of a number of military officers. He described them as sympathique and spoke of these men who were old enough to be his father as if they were his high school buddies. The list of officers he cited was a somewhat strange one. Even though the young man spoke Kabyé, the officers with whom he was allegedly friendly were largely the few remaining Southern Togolese in the Northern-dominated army. In fact, almost all of the ones he cited were either violently killed or died under suspicious circumstances in the years that followed. When he invited me to come to the Military Camp for dinner at the Officers' Mess a few days later, I was hesitant to accept. He asked for a ride and I dropped him off outside a mechanic's garage in the center of Lomé that belongs to one of Eyadéma's sons. Perhaps there is a connection, perhaps not, I thought, but it only cost me a thousand-franc banknote so I accepted the invitation. My would-be host was a no-show. A pity - I would like to have seen where the next act of this little piece of improvisionational theatre would lead!
I miss the "con artists." Satellite TV and movie theaters represent progress, I suppose, but I still admire those "con men." They lived by their wits and their creativity was alternately wickedly clever and hilariously incompetent. It was much better than the average fare on television.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Over the course of the 1970s and 1980s, I ran onto many con artists who had all kinds of stories and subterfuges in order to try to extract money from me or anyone else who would buy their story. There were, however, three perpetrators of this performance art whom I appreciated immensely. I looked forward to their performances. I will call them:
- "My mother is dead,"
- "Le Chef de Douanes," and
- "Eyadéma's Little Brother."
"My mother is dead."
The first performer I call "my mother is dead," simply because these are the first words out of his mouth whenever he knocks on my door. He comes in to give us his sad story and ask for some financial assistance. I first encountered him when I was living in Nyékonakpoé. He arrived at my house, looking very distraught and sweating profusely. I am reminded of the way that comedian Chris Rock described singer Jermaine Jackson, the elder brother of pop superstar Michael Jackson. Jermaine, he said, habitually sweats more than basketball star Patrick Ewing in the fourth quarter of an NBA basketball game. So it was with our visitor. He explained to us that he was our neighbor, and that he lived in a house facing the street behind us. It was evening, when all the banks and other such businesses are closed. He had just read received word that his elderly mother had died in Tsevié. This had caught him entirely off-guard. He needed to go to Tsevié that evening to begin making arrangements for her funeral since he was the eldest child in her family. Unfortunately, he had no money. He asked me for some assistance in getting out to save the day that evening and I gave him a small amount.
This was not to be my last encounter with my new friend. A year or so later, we moved to a house in Tokoin Casablanca. We had not been there long when, lo and behold, who should arrive at our front door one evening but our friend from Nyékonakpoé. His rap was the same. His appearance was the same. He was excited, distracted, and once again sweating profusely. He repeated his tale of woe. His mother had just died in Tsevié, and he needed to return to commence making arrangements for her funeral and disposing of her property. He seemed not to recognize me. Perhaps he just assumed that I did not recognize him. So again, after spending a few minutes and enjoying his performance, I gave him a small contribution and wished him Godspeed to Tsevié.
I was transferred to Washington, DC, and departed Togo in April of 1979. I returned to Lomé in 1982 and moved with my family to a home in Kodzoviakopé. It was not long before our old friend visited us once again. I am your neighbor, he said. I live on the street behind you. I've just received word that my mother has died in Tsevié, and I must return immediately to begin making arrangements. Once more, after commiserating with our neighbor, and finally making one more contribution to his cause he was on his way - presumably to bury his dead mother.
By 1984, we had moved again - this time, to the Tokoin-Hôpital neighborhood. It is, as the name suggests, that area of Tokoin that is adjacent to the hospital at Tokoin. Our friend visited us one more time. I sat down with him and enjoyed the latest embellishments on his sad tale of woe. Finally, I told him that I was surprised that he could keep on living, so overcome with grief he must be at having his mother die four times - not once, not twice, not even three times, but four times. To make matters worse, each time she died in the evening when he had no access to cash in order to make preparations for what was going to be this time the old lady's fourth burial. I reminded him that she died when we lived in Nyékonakpoé. She died again when we lived in Tokoin-Casablanca. She died one more time when we lived in Kodzoviakopé. And now for the fourth, and what I hope will have to be the last time - for her sake, if not for yours - she has died when we are living here in Tokoin-Hôpital. You must be overwhelmed, I said, or you must be very strong. It must be the latter, I said. You must come from good stock. With a mother who has been able to withstand dying and being buried already three times over the last few years, you must come from a very hardy group of people. God bless you and good luck. I played out the scene with a straight face, and so did he. I have not seen him since the fourth time.
"Le Chef de Douanes!"
The second player in the pantheon of entertaining con men is "the Director of Customs." When I was living in Cotonou, Bénin, for a few months in 1983, a man rushed up to me one day just after I had just parked my car in the downtown commercial district to do some shopping.
"It's me, the Director of Customs! C'est moi, le Chef de Douanes! Don't you remember?" he said. "I helped you at the border crossing the last time." It was a pretty high-percentage gamble that he was making. It was highly likely that any "European" with a car had crossed the border recently. Since the police and customs agents are the ones who cause border delays, they are also the ones who can and do help those who are in a hurry to avoid the delays and go on their way after paying a gratuity as an expression of their appreciation.
"I came in from the border," he said. "And I was in such a hurry I left my wallet and my gasoline vouchers at home. The Land Rover's gas tank is on 'Empty' and it is parked a couple of blocks away. Can you help me with some gas money?"
I commiserated and made a small contribution to the cause.
Months later, I moved back to Lomé. One day after I had just parked my car in the downtown commercial district to do some shopping, who but my new buddy, the "Chef de Douanes" rushed up to me. The rap was still the same, almost word-for-word. After all, why fool with success?
"I am the Director of Customs! Le Chef de Douanes! Don't you remember? I helped you at the border crossing the last time."
Before he could continue, I jumped in.
"That is just fantastic," I exclaimed. "It is more than that - it is extraordinary. I knew that you were the 'Chef de Douanes' in Bénin, but now you are also the 'Chef de Douanes' in Togo? That is just unheard-of. How did you do it? I have heard of people occupying two jobs before, but it is absolutely unprecedented to occupy two jobs in the government service of two different countries, unless of course, we are talking about espionage or sabotage. But, you, here you are occupying two positions publicly at the same time. What a great step forward for Togo-Bénin friendship and solidarity! It saves money, too. After all, really, why must their be two 'Chefs de Douanes' at one border crossing point? One 'Chef' is all that is needed, is it not so? It is brilliant. Congratulations."
By the time that I had played my little role in this piece of street improvisational theater, the "Chef" had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and he beat a quick retreat in order to find some other unsuspecting soul.
"Eyadéma's Little Brother"
One weekend day in the early 1980s, I took my children to the swimming pool of one of Lomé's state-owned tourist hotels. As I was watching the chidren, a young Togolese man was leaning against a nearby wall. He was trying to get my attention for some reason. Not recognizing him, I politely nodded but kept my attention on the kids. Finally he sauntered over and began to speak in the manner of a member of an elite who was engaging in a bit of noblesse oblige by taking an interest in me.
"Mais, vous ne me reconnaissez pas?" he asked. "You don't recognize me? C'est moi le petit frère d'Eyadéma! I'm Eyadéma's little brother!"
It could be true, I thought. The President had any number of ne'er-do-well sons and other cocky young relatives possessed of arrogance and oozing a sense of entitlement. He had just returned from a stint at the university in Dakar, Sénégal, he said. He decided to try to impress me by dropping the names of a number of military officers. He described them as sympathique and spoke of these men who were old enough to be his father as if they were his high school buddies. The list of officers he cited was a somewhat strange one. Even though the young man spoke Kabyé, the officers with whom he was allegedly friendly were largely the few remaining Southern Togolese in the Northern-dominated army. In fact, almost all of the ones he cited were either violently killed or died under suspicious circumstances in the years that followed. When he invited me to come to the Military Camp for dinner at the Officers' Mess a few days later, I was hesitant to accept. He asked for a ride and I dropped him off outside a mechanic's garage in the center of Lomé that belongs to one of Eyadéma's sons. Perhaps there is a connection, perhaps not, I thought, but it only cost me a thousand-franc banknote so I accepted the invitation. My would-be host was a no-show. A pity - I would like to have seen where the next act of this little piece of improvisionational theatre would lead!
I miss the "con artists." Satellite TV and movie theaters represent progress, I suppose, but I still admire those "con men." They lived by their wits and their creativity was alternately wickedly clever and hilariously incompetent. It was much better than the average fare on television.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Essay: Yovo
"Yovo, yovo,
Bon soir.
Ca va bien?
Merci!"
"White man, white man,
Good evening.
Are you well?
Thank you!"
I have never liked the word yovo. Yovo is probably the first word that an American or European will hear upon arriving in Togo or Bénin. He or she will likely hear the word in the little song translated word-for-word above. The song seems innocuous enough. The use of the word yovo seems innocuous, too. It is often used as a form of address, as in "Bonjour, Yovo," rather than "Bonjour Monsieur or Madame." Our Togolese and Béninese friends repeatedly assure us that nothing untoward is intended in the use of the word yovo. Its use is not at all pejorative. It's just a pleasantry.
I do not accept that explanation now, 35 years after first arriving in Togo, and I did not accept it then. It would have been a violation of the cultural sensitivity that we were all required to observe and to practice to make an issue of yovo. It would have seemed, or have been made to appear, that I was being overly sensitive at the very least.
On some occasions, I have felt comfortable enough with Togolese friends to discuss the subject. We Americans, I explained, are engaged in a long process of resolving the feelings that have resulted from a long history of slavery, institutionalized racial discrimination, and the struggle for civil rights. We are learning to appreciate that which unites us as a people rather than that which divides us. Addressing a person by his or her race is, I explained, a step in the wrong direction for us.
What does the word yovo really mean? Over the years, we have been repeatedly assured that it means "white man." We were told that the presence of fair-skinned foreigners on their shores was unusual and a legitimate source of amusement and delight for the little children. As I studied the Mina language (never to the point of complete fluency), however, this explanation of the meaning of the word did not seem to make much sense. Breaking down the word, yovo, and its opposite, améyigbo (i.e. black man), did not seem to offer an explanation of how the two words were constructed to indicate skin color or race in any understandable and similar way.
The reason for the inadequacy of this explanation is that the definition of yovo is part of a pretty elaborate subterfuge. In many ways, it represents the "defense mechanism" of a people that has been subjected first to the slave trade, then to a century of colonialism, and finally to a half-century of neocolonial dictatorships. With "yovo," they tweak the nose of those who have placed them so unjustifiably and so cruelly in a position of subordination in their own country. Therefore, it is not surprising that the true meaning of yovo is less benign than we have been told.
Ghanaian historian Charles M.K. Mamattah addressed the meaning of the word in the opening pages of his book, The Éwés of West Africa, Volume 1, The Anlo-Éwés and their Immediate Neighbors. The Anlo version of the Éwé language has served as the basis for the development of written Éwé that serves speakers of Éwé, Mina, Ouatchi, and many other tongues in this closely related cluster of languages in Ghana and Togo. He states: "In Anlo in particular, and Éwé generally, we refer to all our overseas friends as Ayevu or Yevu: modestly, they appear to us as tricksters and dangerously as venomous vampires, swindlers and divisionists. We suspect them of deliberately calculated, malicious, pernicious and persistent attempts to erase all traces of our glorious past or else of recording only those portions of our past which give them false credit. Ayevu or Yevu literally means cunning dog."
This explanation makes sense linguistically. In Mina, the word for dog is avoun or avu. So, at least part of the word, yévu or yovo, incorporates the word for dog. It also makes sense that people deprived of their freedom in their own country would adopt this and other techniques, passive-aggressive though they may be, in order to express their true feelings toward their oppressors while at the same time keeping a smile on their faces. It is an example of the often-seen manifestations of little acts of resistance of the powerless in the face of the powerful that one encounters in the literature analyzing colonialism.
In the new millennium, young people form the overwhelming majority of people in Togo and Bénin. Fewer and fewer people alive today can recall the days of colonialism. Fewer and fewer people can recall the days when the European was the master on the West African coast. The new generation is being called upon to lead their nations into a new way of living and interacting in a globalized social and cultural system and a globalized economy. The time to play little passive-aggressive games with "the Europeans" is long gone. The new generation needs to assume the role of the powerful that is their right in their own country. It needs to comport itself in a way that demands that Europeans, Americans, and Asians treat them and their culture and society with respect. In turn, they must treat these foreigners in ways that are at the same time respectful and businesslike but not obsequious.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Bon soir.
Ca va bien?
Merci!"
"White man, white man,
Good evening.
Are you well?
Thank you!"
I have never liked the word yovo. Yovo is probably the first word that an American or European will hear upon arriving in Togo or Bénin. He or she will likely hear the word in the little song translated word-for-word above. The song seems innocuous enough. The use of the word yovo seems innocuous, too. It is often used as a form of address, as in "Bonjour, Yovo," rather than "Bonjour Monsieur or Madame." Our Togolese and Béninese friends repeatedly assure us that nothing untoward is intended in the use of the word yovo. Its use is not at all pejorative. It's just a pleasantry.
I do not accept that explanation now, 35 years after first arriving in Togo, and I did not accept it then. It would have been a violation of the cultural sensitivity that we were all required to observe and to practice to make an issue of yovo. It would have seemed, or have been made to appear, that I was being overly sensitive at the very least.
On some occasions, I have felt comfortable enough with Togolese friends to discuss the subject. We Americans, I explained, are engaged in a long process of resolving the feelings that have resulted from a long history of slavery, institutionalized racial discrimination, and the struggle for civil rights. We are learning to appreciate that which unites us as a people rather than that which divides us. Addressing a person by his or her race is, I explained, a step in the wrong direction for us.
What does the word yovo really mean? Over the years, we have been repeatedly assured that it means "white man." We were told that the presence of fair-skinned foreigners on their shores was unusual and a legitimate source of amusement and delight for the little children. As I studied the Mina language (never to the point of complete fluency), however, this explanation of the meaning of the word did not seem to make much sense. Breaking down the word, yovo, and its opposite, améyigbo (i.e. black man), did not seem to offer an explanation of how the two words were constructed to indicate skin color or race in any understandable and similar way.
The reason for the inadequacy of this explanation is that the definition of yovo is part of a pretty elaborate subterfuge. In many ways, it represents the "defense mechanism" of a people that has been subjected first to the slave trade, then to a century of colonialism, and finally to a half-century of neocolonial dictatorships. With "yovo," they tweak the nose of those who have placed them so unjustifiably and so cruelly in a position of subordination in their own country. Therefore, it is not surprising that the true meaning of yovo is less benign than we have been told.
Ghanaian historian Charles M.K. Mamattah addressed the meaning of the word in the opening pages of his book, The Éwés of West Africa, Volume 1, The Anlo-Éwés and their Immediate Neighbors. The Anlo version of the Éwé language has served as the basis for the development of written Éwé that serves speakers of Éwé, Mina, Ouatchi, and many other tongues in this closely related cluster of languages in Ghana and Togo. He states: "In Anlo in particular, and Éwé generally, we refer to all our overseas friends as Ayevu or Yevu: modestly, they appear to us as tricksters and dangerously as venomous vampires, swindlers and divisionists. We suspect them of deliberately calculated, malicious, pernicious and persistent attempts to erase all traces of our glorious past or else of recording only those portions of our past which give them false credit. Ayevu or Yevu literally means cunning dog."
This explanation makes sense linguistically. In Mina, the word for dog is avoun or avu. So, at least part of the word, yévu or yovo, incorporates the word for dog. It also makes sense that people deprived of their freedom in their own country would adopt this and other techniques, passive-aggressive though they may be, in order to express their true feelings toward their oppressors while at the same time keeping a smile on their faces. It is an example of the often-seen manifestations of little acts of resistance of the powerless in the face of the powerful that one encounters in the literature analyzing colonialism.
In the new millennium, young people form the overwhelming majority of people in Togo and Bénin. Fewer and fewer people alive today can recall the days of colonialism. Fewer and fewer people can recall the days when the European was the master on the West African coast. The new generation is being called upon to lead their nations into a new way of living and interacting in a globalized social and cultural system and a globalized economy. The time to play little passive-aggressive games with "the Europeans" is long gone. The new generation needs to assume the role of the powerful that is their right in their own country. It needs to comport itself in a way that demands that Europeans, Americans, and Asians treat them and their culture and society with respect. In turn, they must treat these foreigners in ways that are at the same time respectful and businesslike but not obsequious.
______________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Essay: Bringing It Back Home, and Taking It Out Again
Once a Peace Corps Volunteer, always a Peace Corps Volunteer. Americans who have served with the Peace Corps in more than 100 countries in the last 45 years number almost 200,000. Regardless of where they served in the world, Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs) have an instant bond. They have in common a life-changing personal and cross-cultural experience that, in most cases, they love to talk about, and not just to each other. They organize into RPCV groups to perform educational activities about the world that they have experienced and our place in it. Few of them, however, are satisfied that they have had the impact on our own society that they wanted to have.
Amadou Diallo
One day in 1999, my son Diego and I were going somewhere in the car. On the radio, we heard a news broadcast that described the tragic case of Amadou Diallo. Four New York City police officers, who were intending to arrest an alleged rapist, mistakenly shot at the young immigrant from Guinea more than 40 times at the front door of his apartment building. Nineteen bullets struck him, killing him instantly. The police reported that he was reaching for something in his pocket, causing them to open fire on him. It turned out that he was reaching for his wallet and that he was not armed. I told my son that I knew exactly what had happened as soon as I heard this news story. As an African from a French-speaking country, Diallo was doing what he had undoubtedly done countless times in his home country: he was reaching for his identification papers. This is common practice in Africa. Every time a civilian encounters a policeman or a gendarme, the civilian always knows that he will be asked to present his identification papers. "Vos pièces, monsieur. Your papers, sir." Even if no crime has been committed and there is no probable cause to ask a civilian for his identification papers, the civilian must comply or risk being arrested. So, as someone who spent many years in Francophone Africa, I knew instantly that Amadou Diallo was just reflexively doing what any Francophone African would do when confronted by the police.
My son was visibly upset. He leaned forward and grasped the dashboard of the car just above the radio. He said, "Dad, if only you could tell them, something like that would never happen again."
Afghan Wedding shooting
One day in 2002, my son and I were again going somewhere in the car. On the radio, we heard a news broadcast that described how United States military airplanes had strafed a wedding party after dark in Afghanistan and many innocent men, women, and children had been killed. Apparently, the pilots saw muzzle flashes from gunfire below them. They thought that they were coming under fire from members of the Taliban. In fact, the flashes came from members of the wedding party who were shooting their rifles into the air in celebration. I told my son that I immediately knew what had happened. In many countries around the world, it is customary to celebrate a wedding or some other kind of ceremony by shooting rifles into the air. The pilots had mistaken the gunfire at the wedding reception for hostile fire. If you were not from one of these countries, or if you had not been a Peace Corps Volunteer or had a similar cross-cultural experience, you would probably not know about this practice.
My son, visibly upset once again, said to me, "Dad, if only you could have told them ...."
If only the cultural knowledge that returned Peace Corps Volunteers and staff have acquired could be transferred to others in our society, we might be able to avoid more tragic incidents like that terrible ones that befell Amadou Diallo and the Afghani wedding celebrants. Returned Peace Corps Volunteers contribute countless hours in both formal and informal efforts to fulfill Peace Corps' "Third Goal" and "bring their experience - and its learnings - back home" and put it to the use of our society. Unfortunately, there are still few formal means by which RPCVs can share their experiences and insights with our police, fire, and rescue personnel; doctors, nurses, and social workers; and educators. Neither are there enough formal opportunities to inform our military, diplomats, businesspeople, aid workers and their families, so that they can benefit from the RPCVs' experiences. How many "deaths by cultural ignorance or insensitivity" could we prevent?
As I have reflected upon these two incidents, I have been obliged to conclude also that certain things in my "home" culture in the U.S. have changed 180° from the time that I was growing up. Based upon my experience growing up in "Suburbia," I had a general respect and trust for the police. When I brought my three children back to the States from Africa, I taught them that the police were different here in the U.S. You should respect them and cooperate, I advised them. For instance, I suggested, if you are stopped by a police cruiser for what is presumably a traffic violation, get ready to make things go smoothly by cooperating: get out your driver's license, retrieve the car registration and proof of insurance from the glove box, and roll down your window. While this approach may have worked for Beaver and the rest of the Cleaver family back in the 1950s, it could not be more wrong in the New Millennium. Cases like Diallo and my own children's stops for the infraction of DWB (i.e. "driving while black") have convinced me that, if my children continue to follow my advice, they may be shot by an overzealous police officer before they get a chance to live a long and happy life. There were times when I thought that I may have become paranoid. None other than Charles Ramsey, Chief of the Metropolitan Police Force of the District of Columbia, however, confirmed that there are "new rules" to follow when you see police lights flashing in your rear-view mirror. During one of his visits to the WTOP radio "Ask the Chief" call-in programs, when asked how members of the public should conduct themselves when stopped by the police, Chief Ramsey's recommendations corresponded closely to the "new rules" that I had established for my children, with the exception of the last one. The new rules are:
Perhaps we now need not only to share our "cross-cultural learnings" with our fellow Americans; we need also to remember that cultures not only cross and evolve, they may also re-cross and devolve. We need also to remind citizens and new arrivals alike how much certain aspects of American society at home have devolved in a regrettable direction during the 45 year life of the Peace Corps. We need to warn them that certain current practices resemble some of the more unfortunate practices that the RPCVs observed in their host countries and that new arrivals thought that they had left behind.
__________________________________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Amadou Diallo
One day in 1999, my son Diego and I were going somewhere in the car. On the radio, we heard a news broadcast that described the tragic case of Amadou Diallo. Four New York City police officers, who were intending to arrest an alleged rapist, mistakenly shot at the young immigrant from Guinea more than 40 times at the front door of his apartment building. Nineteen bullets struck him, killing him instantly. The police reported that he was reaching for something in his pocket, causing them to open fire on him. It turned out that he was reaching for his wallet and that he was not armed. I told my son that I knew exactly what had happened as soon as I heard this news story. As an African from a French-speaking country, Diallo was doing what he had undoubtedly done countless times in his home country: he was reaching for his identification papers. This is common practice in Africa. Every time a civilian encounters a policeman or a gendarme, the civilian always knows that he will be asked to present his identification papers. "Vos pièces, monsieur. Your papers, sir." Even if no crime has been committed and there is no probable cause to ask a civilian for his identification papers, the civilian must comply or risk being arrested. So, as someone who spent many years in Francophone Africa, I knew instantly that Amadou Diallo was just reflexively doing what any Francophone African would do when confronted by the police.
My son was visibly upset. He leaned forward and grasped the dashboard of the car just above the radio. He said, "Dad, if only you could tell them, something like that would never happen again."
Afghan Wedding shooting
One day in 2002, my son and I were again going somewhere in the car. On the radio, we heard a news broadcast that described how United States military airplanes had strafed a wedding party after dark in Afghanistan and many innocent men, women, and children had been killed. Apparently, the pilots saw muzzle flashes from gunfire below them. They thought that they were coming under fire from members of the Taliban. In fact, the flashes came from members of the wedding party who were shooting their rifles into the air in celebration. I told my son that I immediately knew what had happened. In many countries around the world, it is customary to celebrate a wedding or some other kind of ceremony by shooting rifles into the air. The pilots had mistaken the gunfire at the wedding reception for hostile fire. If you were not from one of these countries, or if you had not been a Peace Corps Volunteer or had a similar cross-cultural experience, you would probably not know about this practice.
My son, visibly upset once again, said to me, "Dad, if only you could have told them ...."
If only the cultural knowledge that returned Peace Corps Volunteers and staff have acquired could be transferred to others in our society, we might be able to avoid more tragic incidents like that terrible ones that befell Amadou Diallo and the Afghani wedding celebrants. Returned Peace Corps Volunteers contribute countless hours in both formal and informal efforts to fulfill Peace Corps' "Third Goal" and "bring their experience - and its learnings - back home" and put it to the use of our society. Unfortunately, there are still few formal means by which RPCVs can share their experiences and insights with our police, fire, and rescue personnel; doctors, nurses, and social workers; and educators. Neither are there enough formal opportunities to inform our military, diplomats, businesspeople, aid workers and their families, so that they can benefit from the RPCVs' experiences. How many "deaths by cultural ignorance or insensitivity" could we prevent?
As I have reflected upon these two incidents, I have been obliged to conclude also that certain things in my "home" culture in the U.S. have changed 180° from the time that I was growing up. Based upon my experience growing up in "Suburbia," I had a general respect and trust for the police. When I brought my three children back to the States from Africa, I taught them that the police were different here in the U.S. You should respect them and cooperate, I advised them. For instance, I suggested, if you are stopped by a police cruiser for what is presumably a traffic violation, get ready to make things go smoothly by cooperating: get out your driver's license, retrieve the car registration and proof of insurance from the glove box, and roll down your window. While this approach may have worked for Beaver and the rest of the Cleaver family back in the 1950s, it could not be more wrong in the New Millennium. Cases like Diallo and my own children's stops for the infraction of DWB (i.e. "driving while black") have convinced me that, if my children continue to follow my advice, they may be shot by an overzealous police officer before they get a chance to live a long and happy life. There were times when I thought that I may have become paranoid. None other than Charles Ramsey, Chief of the Metropolitan Police Force of the District of Columbia, however, confirmed that there are "new rules" to follow when you see police lights flashing in your rear-view mirror. During one of his visits to the WTOP radio "Ask the Chief" call-in programs, when asked how members of the public should conduct themselves when stopped by the police, Chief Ramsey's recommendations corresponded closely to the "new rules" that I had established for my children, with the exception of the last one. The new rules are:
- When you see the flashing lights, slow down but keep driving until you arrive at a well-lit, public place, e.g. a convenience store or gas station, before stopping;
- Once you are stopped, FREEZE. Don't move a muscle. Wait until the officer arrives. Follow instructions. Make no precipitous gestures or moves for which you have not received explicit permission; and
- Don't be hostile or uncooperative but don't buy into any bull if the officer(s) say that they only want you to "help them with their investigation." Politely ask to be allowed to call your family and/or a lawyer.
Perhaps we now need not only to share our "cross-cultural learnings" with our fellow Americans; we need also to remember that cultures not only cross and evolve, they may also re-cross and devolve. We need also to remind citizens and new arrivals alike how much certain aspects of American society at home have devolved in a regrettable direction during the 45 year life of the Peace Corps. We need to warn them that certain current practices resemble some of the more unfortunate practices that the RPCVs observed in their host countries and that new arrivals thought that they had left behind.
__________________________________________________________________
Copyright Kelly J. Morris 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Togo Reminiscence: Chief Kabraitchouka Kolouba
Kabraitchouka Kolouba, Chief of Baga, was a retired soldier - a veteran of the French army. Gruff and blunt-spoken, he might have been a prime candidate to be an autocratic, even dictatorial, “strong African Chief.” In fact, he was ferociously dedicated to practicing traditional consultative democracy and just as ferociously dedicated to conscientiously and thoroughly implementing decisions taken by consensus.
Baga is a large village of at least 6000 people, composed of five distinct neighborhoods, each with its sub-Chief. A proposal to build a new school building due to overcrowding in the current buildings was thoroughly vetted by the village’s inclusive democratic consultative process. It was presided over by the Chief, who insisted that everyone understand that a decision that was taken by all would be implemented by all.
One of the first tasks in building the new school was to find sand and bring it to the school site for mixing concrete and making mortar for block walls. Each neighborhood agreed to send a specified number of men and women to the sand pit - men to dig the sand, women to carry it on their heads in buckets and dump it in the bed of a pickup truck that I had borrowed.
On Day One, workers from only three of the neighborhoods came to the sand pit. I drove the pickup truck to the chief’s house and informed him of the situation.
“Let’s go,” he said to as he climbed into the cab of the truck. We went to the homes of the two aging neighborhood chiefs whose workers were absent. We collected them and drove to the sand pit. The Chief sent the young men who were digging sand to rest under a shade tree. He took three shovels - one for himself and one each for the two neighborhood chiefs. For the next hour, the three of them shoveled sand into the back of the truck. At the end of the hour, he told them, “No one forced us to build the school for our children. We discussed it and we decided to do it. And we will do what we decided to do.”
We returned them to their homes. There were no further absences at the school site. There were no absences at any other self-help construction site in Baga over the next three years. Led by their Chief, the people considered their needs, priorities, and resources together. They made decisions and they implemented the decisions that they took in democratic consultation with all segments of the village, including women, represented. No one could convince them or force them to do what they did not want to do, although some tried. No one could prevent them from doing what they decided to do.
___________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2005 Kelly J. Morris
Baga is a large village of at least 6000 people, composed of five distinct neighborhoods, each with its sub-Chief. A proposal to build a new school building due to overcrowding in the current buildings was thoroughly vetted by the village’s inclusive democratic consultative process. It was presided over by the Chief, who insisted that everyone understand that a decision that was taken by all would be implemented by all.
One of the first tasks in building the new school was to find sand and bring it to the school site for mixing concrete and making mortar for block walls. Each neighborhood agreed to send a specified number of men and women to the sand pit - men to dig the sand, women to carry it on their heads in buckets and dump it in the bed of a pickup truck that I had borrowed.
On Day One, workers from only three of the neighborhoods came to the sand pit. I drove the pickup truck to the chief’s house and informed him of the situation.
“Let’s go,” he said to as he climbed into the cab of the truck. We went to the homes of the two aging neighborhood chiefs whose workers were absent. We collected them and drove to the sand pit. The Chief sent the young men who were digging sand to rest under a shade tree. He took three shovels - one for himself and one each for the two neighborhood chiefs. For the next hour, the three of them shoveled sand into the back of the truck. At the end of the hour, he told them, “No one forced us to build the school for our children. We discussed it and we decided to do it. And we will do what we decided to do.”
We returned them to their homes. There were no further absences at the school site. There were no absences at any other self-help construction site in Baga over the next three years. Led by their Chief, the people considered their needs, priorities, and resources together. They made decisions and they implemented the decisions that they took in democratic consultation with all segments of the village, including women, represented. No one could convince them or force them to do what they did not want to do, although some tried. No one could prevent them from doing what they decided to do.
___________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2005 Kelly J. Morris
Friday, March 17, 2006
Togo Reminiscence: Tomatoes
In the mid-1990s, I was working once again at Peace Corps Headquarters in Washington. When I paid a visit to Lomé, I met with a Minister in the Togolese government who was from the Kara Region. I was presented to her as someone who had a long history with Peace Corps/Togo and had spent many years as a Volunteer and as Associate Peace Corps Director/Agriculture and Rural Development. She was pleased and as soon as we sat down, she said to me:
"Thank you for the tomatoes."
"The tomatoes, Madame Minister?" I asked. I had no idea what she meant.
"Yes, " she replied. "Your Peace Corps Volunteers taught our primary school children how to make gardens to grow tomatoes and other local vegetables. Many of these children are now in the high school (lycée). They pay their school expenses and support themselves with the gardens that each one of them has on the banks of the Kara! They grow and sell tomatoes and okra (gombo) and other vegetables and greens that are part of the local diet. Thank you!"
When my fellow trainees and I trained at the Virgin Islands Training Center on St. Croix in late 1968, we learned gardening and small animal-raising techniques that those who elected to work in the School Gardens Program would teach. The ideas of René Dumont's False Start in Africa (L'Afrique noire est mal partie) inspired us and Tanzanian President Julius Nyerere's school gardens program to make every school self-sufficient was our model.
When it came time to apply for our assignments, however, I must have had an inkling of the potential frustrations as well as the satisfactions of school gardens. I opted for Self-Help Construction, a program with its own frustrations but at least the reward of seeing and touching the results of one's labors. As important as agriculture is to Togo and specifically to Togolese young people, the idea that all primary schools could be food self-sufficient turned out to be entirely impractical and the role of gardens in the schools and to the teachers remained unclear. My school gardens classmates ran themselves ragged delivering seeds and gardening tools on their motorbikes to twenty or more schools. Their efforts were appreciated but they had precious little time for real agricultural education.
The reincarnation of School Gardens in 1976 came in the form of the Agricultural Education Program (AgEd). Re-modeled along the lines of the School Health Education Program, AgEd targeted activity in a reduced number of schools. The initial ones were selected in advance for the availability of land and water and the expressed interest of school principals and teachers. It assumed that, while school food sufficiency might not be a realistic goal, transferring practical agricultural and small animal husbandry skills to teachers and students was both doable and worthwhile, especially when focused on items that reflected local taste and marketability. Finally, AgEd embraced the the programming modus operandi of Peace Corps/Togo throughout the 1970s and 1980s by emphasizing the creation of practical manuals and technical worksheets (fiches techniques). Written in French, the documents were used to train teachers and to teach basic agriculture and animal raising skills to school pupils. Like School Health Education, AgEd left the Togolese Ministry of Education with a wealth of manuals and other materials that are appropriate to Togolese agriculture and Togolese schools, as well as a number of teachers and students who were inspired by the Volunteers' work.
Sometimes, in the midst of the AgEd project, it was difficult to see whether the program would have any lasting effects. Sometimes, Volunteers who did not see a great deal of tangible progress in the short term were discouraged. I wish that every Agricultural Education Volunteer and especially every School Gardens Volunteer could have been there with me that day so that they, too, could have shared in the Minister's thanks for the tomatoes.
________________________________________________
Copyright © 2006 Kelly J. Morris
"Thank you for the tomatoes."
"The tomatoes, Madame Minister?" I asked. I had no idea what she meant.
"Yes, " she replied. "Your Peace Corps Volunteers taught our primary school children how to make gardens to grow tomatoes and other local vegetables. Many of these children are now in the high school (lycée). They pay their school expenses and support themselves with the gardens that each one of them has on the banks of the Kara! They grow and sell tomatoes and okra (gombo) and other vegetables and greens that are part of the local diet. Thank you!"
When my fellow trainees and I trained at the Virgin Islands Training Center on St. Croix in late 1968, we learned gardening and small animal-raising techniques that those who elected to work in the School Gardens Program would teach. The ideas of René Dumont's False Start in Africa (L'Afrique noire est mal partie) inspired us and Tanzanian President Julius Nyerere's school gardens program to make every school self-sufficient was our model.
When it came time to apply for our assignments, however, I must have had an inkling of the potential frustrations as well as the satisfactions of school gardens. I opted for Self-Help Construction, a program with its own frustrations but at least the reward of seeing and touching the results of one's labors. As important as agriculture is to Togo and specifically to Togolese young people, the idea that all primary schools could be food self-sufficient turned out to be entirely impractical and the role of gardens in the schools and to the teachers remained unclear. My school gardens classmates ran themselves ragged delivering seeds and gardening tools on their motorbikes to twenty or more schools. Their efforts were appreciated but they had precious little time for real agricultural education.
The reincarnation of School Gardens in 1976 came in the form of the Agricultural Education Program (AgEd). Re-modeled along the lines of the School Health Education Program, AgEd targeted activity in a reduced number of schools. The initial ones were selected in advance for the availability of land and water and the expressed interest of school principals and teachers. It assumed that, while school food sufficiency might not be a realistic goal, transferring practical agricultural and small animal husbandry skills to teachers and students was both doable and worthwhile, especially when focused on items that reflected local taste and marketability. Finally, AgEd embraced the the programming modus operandi of Peace Corps/Togo throughout the 1970s and 1980s by emphasizing the creation of practical manuals and technical worksheets (fiches techniques). Written in French, the documents were used to train teachers and to teach basic agriculture and animal raising skills to school pupils. Like School Health Education, AgEd left the Togolese Ministry of Education with a wealth of manuals and other materials that are appropriate to Togolese agriculture and Togolese schools, as well as a number of teachers and students who were inspired by the Volunteers' work.
Sometimes, in the midst of the AgEd project, it was difficult to see whether the program would have any lasting effects. Sometimes, Volunteers who did not see a great deal of tangible progress in the short term were discouraged. I wish that every Agricultural Education Volunteer and especially every School Gardens Volunteer could have been there with me that day so that they, too, could have shared in the Minister's thanks for the tomatoes.
________________________________________________
Copyright © 2006 Kelly J. Morris
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Togo Reminiscence: Snooping
The U.S. Department of State, in its annual Human Rights Report on Togo for 2005, noted that during the year "gendarmes went undercover on campus and attended classes" at the University of Lomé and otherwise indulged in other surreptitious monitoring of citizens.
I was not surprised. The Togolese government has a long history of snooping. When I look back on some of the "Keystone Kops" incidences of snooping that I encountered in the 1970s and early 1980s, however, it is tempting to recall them with a smile. There was a naïve and disingenuous quality about them.
The slow international mail - always blamed on strikes of postal workers in France - became even slower as the 1970s wore on. All the letters that we received and the letters that we sent home were opened and then clumsily re-sealed with glue. We came to appreciate the different skill levels of those security personnel assigned to the post office. Some obviously wielded a letter-opener and a glue brush with much greater aplomb than their colleagues. It became standard practice to put US stamps on our mail and give it to travelers to mail in New York. Often, we would make a pilgrimage out to the Lome-Tokoin International Airport on the day when the Air Afrique flight to New York was departing, there to importune some traveler to carry our letters for us.
Not long after the aborting of the planned attack of mercenaries on Lomé in 1977, I organized a mid-term conference of Rural Community Development/Construction Volunteers. My practice was to take advantage of the small hotels built by the government in many préfectures to spread the conferences around the country. It gave Volunteers an opportunity to spend a few days in a town other than their own site or in Lomé. This time, it was Bassar's turn and we convened at the hillside hotel there.
We met in the hotel's meeting room and discussed a number of topics. Some were technical, such as the various low-cost building techniques and materials that we were promoting. Some had to do with funding from the US Ambassador's Self-Help Fund, the Peace Corps Partnership Project, and other donors. Still others concerned support and in-service training needs in building and in local language. The most animated discussions, however, were about the Volunteers' relationships with the District Governors (Préfets) and the District Primary School Superintendents (Inspecteurs Primaires). The latter were the Volunteers' direct supervisors. Many "war stories" were exchanged and most centered around logistic support, i.e. how to work with the Préfets and the Inspecteurs to obtain the use of vehicles to transport sand, gravel, and rocks, and the assignment of government skilled tradespeople such as masons and carpenters to assist the villages with their projects.
A young Togolese man dressed in the white shirt, black slacks, and a red bow tie of a server at the hotel restaurant had spent the entire day at a table in the hall outside of our meeting room. He sat underneath a window that opened into the room, writing in a school notebook with a Bic® pen. At the end of the day, as we left the meeting room, he came over to greet me. The Volunteer who lived in Bassar introduced me to him as a policemen at the local precinct (commissariat). He explained that he had been assigned by the local police chief to listen and take notes and to report back on what was discussed at our meeting! Since his English was not that good, he wanted to verify his notes with me. In sum, he said, he understood that we had spent the day discussing how best to ... build official residences for the Préfets. I smiled and patiently corrected his information and summarized the day's discussions for him as he scribbled in his notebook. I invited him to return if there were any further questions or any additional information that he needed. He seemed very pleased.
In 1979, I transferred from Togo to Peace Corps headquarters in Washington where I became Country Desk Officer for Ghana, Togo, and Benin. One day, I received a phone call from a Togolese gendarme with whom I became friendly when he was assigned to Tokoin airport. He had been helpful in getting me in and out of the reception area to greet or see off travelers and I had brought him a Casio® watch with an integrated calculator. He explained to me that he had been re-assigned to the main Post and Telephone office to monitor international phone calls. From there, he would be able to keep in touch, since he could make calls whenever there was no one to listen to.
In the United States of 2006, I am often - too often - struck by some unsettling facts. Togo has evolved over the years in some ways that make it more Western, at least in technological terms. Nevertheless, I am encountering certain phenomena here that I encountered in Togo and never thought that I would see or experience in the United States. If someone is listening to any of my calls, I do wish that they would extend to me the same courtesy of that young Togolese police officer, by contacting me directly and verifying that they got their facts right.
From the perspective of 2006, the inept Togolese government "snooping" of the 1970s no longer seems as humorous as it appeared then. By 1989, it was part and parcel of a regime that was becoming increasingly violent and brutal. It is a sad commentary on the state of civil liberties in the United States that our situation is devolving in the direction of the authoritarian Togolese dictatorship, rather than remaining a beacon toward which Togo and other nations can evolve.
_____________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2006 Kelly J. Morris
I was not surprised. The Togolese government has a long history of snooping. When I look back on some of the "Keystone Kops" incidences of snooping that I encountered in the 1970s and early 1980s, however, it is tempting to recall them with a smile. There was a naïve and disingenuous quality about them.
The slow international mail - always blamed on strikes of postal workers in France - became even slower as the 1970s wore on. All the letters that we received and the letters that we sent home were opened and then clumsily re-sealed with glue. We came to appreciate the different skill levels of those security personnel assigned to the post office. Some obviously wielded a letter-opener and a glue brush with much greater aplomb than their colleagues. It became standard practice to put US stamps on our mail and give it to travelers to mail in New York. Often, we would make a pilgrimage out to the Lome-Tokoin International Airport on the day when the Air Afrique flight to New York was departing, there to importune some traveler to carry our letters for us.
Not long after the aborting of the planned attack of mercenaries on Lomé in 1977, I organized a mid-term conference of Rural Community Development/Construction Volunteers. My practice was to take advantage of the small hotels built by the government in many préfectures to spread the conferences around the country. It gave Volunteers an opportunity to spend a few days in a town other than their own site or in Lomé. This time, it was Bassar's turn and we convened at the hillside hotel there.
We met in the hotel's meeting room and discussed a number of topics. Some were technical, such as the various low-cost building techniques and materials that we were promoting. Some had to do with funding from the US Ambassador's Self-Help Fund, the Peace Corps Partnership Project, and other donors. Still others concerned support and in-service training needs in building and in local language. The most animated discussions, however, were about the Volunteers' relationships with the District Governors (Préfets) and the District Primary School Superintendents (Inspecteurs Primaires). The latter were the Volunteers' direct supervisors. Many "war stories" were exchanged and most centered around logistic support, i.e. how to work with the Préfets and the Inspecteurs to obtain the use of vehicles to transport sand, gravel, and rocks, and the assignment of government skilled tradespeople such as masons and carpenters to assist the villages with their projects.
A young Togolese man dressed in the white shirt, black slacks, and a red bow tie of a server at the hotel restaurant had spent the entire day at a table in the hall outside of our meeting room. He sat underneath a window that opened into the room, writing in a school notebook with a Bic® pen. At the end of the day, as we left the meeting room, he came over to greet me. The Volunteer who lived in Bassar introduced me to him as a policemen at the local precinct (commissariat). He explained that he had been assigned by the local police chief to listen and take notes and to report back on what was discussed at our meeting! Since his English was not that good, he wanted to verify his notes with me. In sum, he said, he understood that we had spent the day discussing how best to ... build official residences for the Préfets. I smiled and patiently corrected his information and summarized the day's discussions for him as he scribbled in his notebook. I invited him to return if there were any further questions or any additional information that he needed. He seemed very pleased.
In 1979, I transferred from Togo to Peace Corps headquarters in Washington where I became Country Desk Officer for Ghana, Togo, and Benin. One day, I received a phone call from a Togolese gendarme with whom I became friendly when he was assigned to Tokoin airport. He had been helpful in getting me in and out of the reception area to greet or see off travelers and I had brought him a Casio® watch with an integrated calculator. He explained to me that he had been re-assigned to the main Post and Telephone office to monitor international phone calls. From there, he would be able to keep in touch, since he could make calls whenever there was no one to listen to.
In the United States of 2006, I am often - too often - struck by some unsettling facts. Togo has evolved over the years in some ways that make it more Western, at least in technological terms. Nevertheless, I am encountering certain phenomena here that I encountered in Togo and never thought that I would see or experience in the United States. If someone is listening to any of my calls, I do wish that they would extend to me the same courtesy of that young Togolese police officer, by contacting me directly and verifying that they got their facts right.
From the perspective of 2006, the inept Togolese government "snooping" of the 1970s no longer seems as humorous as it appeared then. By 1989, it was part and parcel of a regime that was becoming increasingly violent and brutal. It is a sad commentary on the state of civil liberties in the United States that our situation is devolving in the direction of the authoritarian Togolese dictatorship, rather than remaining a beacon toward which Togo and other nations can evolve.
_____________________________________________________________
Copyright © 2006 Kelly J. Morris
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