The dangers of warfare..and a single story
In this edition of The Bright Continent I will take you along on patrol in the fragile northern region of Mali and explain to you why I attach so much value to the craft of travel writing.
Grains of sand were causing a gritty, itchy feeling, my muscles were sore and I hadn’t slept for days. After spending little less than a week with a unit of UN peacekeepers, whom I joined on patrol through the vast wastelands of northern-Mali, it was time for us to return to Gao. In order to avoid roadside bombs or being ambushed, our way back to the historic desert city happened with a considerable detour.
Hemmed in by ammunition and provision in the back of a pickup truck, I saw the mighty Niger River appearing in the distance, dragging a winding trail of vegetation through the merciless Sahara desert. The northern city of Gao, situated on the east bank of the river, looked like an organic part of the desert, as if it had risen from the dust in muddy blocks, making up a community of sand castles.
At that time, northern Mali was a safe haven for local franchises of al-Qaeda and the Islamic State, as well as criminal armed groups who repeatedly terrorized the local population. Despite the presence of the blue helmets, the fragile status quo didn’t improve much and the excessive use of violence meanwhile spread into neighboring countries.
After more than ten years of destabilizing jihadist insurgencies, separatist armed groups and Tuareg rebels are currently generating a hazardous new front in the country. At the same time, Mali is lapsing into political turmoil after two coups while the ruling military junta has forced the French troops and UN peacekeepers to withdraw. In return the Wagner Group has made its appearance - a Russian-led platoon of mercenaries that doesn’t care much about human rights. As one will understand, the situation in Gao is taking yet another dramatic turn.
I remember that I felt slightly anxious when approaching Gao, as the press updates about death, destruction and despair I read in preparation of my travels up north, weren’t very soothing.
However, while driving through partly smoldering neighborhoods, passing houses that were shot to pieces, I also learned about a completely different side of Gao. A dynamic and hopeful sight of the city that was mostly overlooked as news updates about African affairs are almost always centered around negatives and exceptions, dealing with problems or crises.
While bouncing around the back of a military truck, I came to understand that news is itself a product of the way it is gathered. Especially in countries at war, visiting journalists invariably ask to be taken to the worst-hit parts and report on isolated events, which fuels the human temptation to label the local population either as victims or terrorists.
For the sake of clarity, what reaches our living rooms through respected media is the truth and nothing but the truth. Yet at the same time it’s only a part of the truth. Or, as the Swedish doctor and ever optimistic statistician, late Hans Rosling, once said: “Forming your worldview by relying on the media would be like forming your view about me by looking only at a picture of my foot. Sure, my foot is part of me, but it’s a pretty ugly part. I have better parts.”
When moving around Gao - generally identified as a warzone - I saw what dr. Rosling tried to emphasize in his books and lectures. Yes, the population was generally burdened by the ongoing violence, but at the same time I witnessed how daily life continued relatively unbothered.
If I look back at my last six years of working as a correspondent, it was during this very patrol that I started to appreciate the importance of travel writing as a means to balance ‘hard’ journalism with insights from everyday life. Travel stories go beyond the extremes and talk about the figure in the landscape instead and I think that’s exactly what is needed in our contemporary, highly polarized world.
Therefore let me highlight a different side of northern Mali in this edition of The Bright Continent and tell you about ordinary people, people like you and me, and their everyday struggle in Gao. Cause frankly - without denying the tough circumstances - their daily lives weren’t all that different from any other life.
Gao holds a rich legacy that dates back over a thousand years. It has been a center of commerce, culture and learning for centuries, while serving as a pivotal trading hub on the trans-Saharan trade routes. When our military convoy reached the outskirts of the sandy city, it became clear how its strategic location at the Niger River contributed to the historical prosperity and influence in the region.
At the same time I noticed how the war and its unpredictability bleached the self-importance out of the city and its people. Surrounded by the fresh and smoldering ruïnes, the threat of being overrun crouched in the shadows of everybody’s thoughts. Yes, Gao was at the heart of terror and violence, yet it was the friendliest place I visited so far.
While we moved through town with heavy artillery, children were waving. ‘Biscuit, chocolat,’ they sang in chorus. It was a legacy of French troops who attempted to win the hearts and minds of the local population when they reached Gao for the first time many years earlier.
The kids didn’t seem bothered by the armored vehicles or weaponry. One gets used to clashing guns surprisingly easily. Instead, they approached the situation as if it were a game. When we stopped at an intersection and soldiers were pushing the moped of a stranded boy through the loose sand, the children rapidly gathered around me and asked if I could reveal where the soldiers had hidden their provisions and sweets.
Three veiled elderly men beheld the fuzz from a ledge while leaning on their wooden sticks. On the other side of the road, a youth center got busy after afternoon prayers and behind the trucks teenagers were chasing a ball like a wild herd of horses. Just like everywhere, life happened. Wearing a helmet and a flag jacket, the surprisingly pleasant atmosphere was starting to make me feel overdressed. Although I was in camouflage, I was anything but invisible.
At a garage, made up of a corrugated roof on four sticks, Alassane was repairing mopeds. He was in his twenties at that time, wore a red cap and was tinkering with a rusty exhaust. He didn’t seem very happy with the military presence in his hometown. ‘Their work is necessary for our safety, but I would prefer to see all armored vehicles leave,’ he sighed. ‘We just want to live our lives in peace.’
Later, one of the elderly men on the ledge wriggled his toes into his slippers, straightened his worn out back, stood up and waved us over. Behind his veil, a grey and bristly moustache appeared. He introduced himself as Oumar and wanted to lecture me and Alassane about Mali’s monumental heritage. He started right away, as if he was a licensed tour guide.
While the soldiers gathered intelligence, Oumar sparked our imagination with an evocative tour along Mali’s historic sites, but not before naming a few of the kingdoms his country knew. Most striking was that of Mansu Moussa, the 14th century king who is often named the richest man of all time, easily surpassing Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk.
Thereafter, Oumar took us from the ledge in the midst of Gao’s hustle and bustle to Timbuktu, a historical stopping place for desert caravans. Timbuktu was an intellectual capital and a centre for the propagation of Islam throughout Africa in the 15th and 16th centuries. ‘And don’t forget Djenné,’ he said while raising his finger as if he was calling upon the almighty Allah himself. The ancient trading city and center of Muslim scholarship is known for its Great Mosque and clay architecture.
When I asked Oumar if he wasn’t concerned about losing Mali’s heritage to the ongoing violence, he confidently replied that he wasn’t worried at all. ‘Whatever happens, our culture will prevail as it always has,’ he emphasized with a soothing assurance. ‘Cultural heritage is the cornerstone of any society, something people can hold on to, no matter what happens.’
After I said goodbye to Oumar, Alassane and the kids the convoy moved on, whereafter the street sank back into its state of desert apathy, as if the world around them wasn’t falling apart.
Two blocks away, an antique speaker, bulging from the back of an oldtimer, produced crackling jazzy sounds - it must have been the infamous Sahara blues. The driver stood next to it with flashy sunglasses and visibly enjoyed the attention. He waved from his wrist as if he was part of a royal parade. I remember how the vibrant atmosphere on the banks of the mighty Niger felt contagious.
With a rippled white streak, the afternoon sun split West-Africa's most mighty river in two. Silhouettes of fishermen pushed their pirogues home like accomplished gondoliers, women occupied the market stalls and children were fixing fishing nets at the river banks.
I recall wishing that I was allowed to leave the peacekeepers for a few hours, to blend in with the crowd and discover the ancient desert city by foot. But I was at the mercy of the military mission, trapped in a two-square-meter cargo box which I could only leave with the commander's permission.
Everywhere I looked, life went on as it always has. Citizens greeted each other with a smile, discussed the latest gossip and paid little attention to the approaching convoy. It was an encouraging observation that provided me with dearly needed insights into ordinary life, just enough to counterweight the tragic statistics of the ongoing conflict.
I think it’s exactly that human side, supplemented by a peek into the ordinary, what makes travel writing an important addition to regular journalism, especially when it comes to African affairs. Because if the tales about everyday life are neglected, the danger of a single story looms, which can perpetuate stereotypes, oversimplify complex issues, and limit our understanding of diverse perspectives and experiences. Frankly, avoiding that to happen is where this publication derives its right to exist from.
That’s all for now folks. I hope you’ll stick around and it would be greatly appreciated if you tell people (to tell people) about this publication. Do feel free to drop me a line in case of any questions or suggestions and don’t forget to have a look at the amazing work of the African creatives I work with here.
Daaf
Very interesting stories that Oumar shared with you; I wished I was there to listen to all the stories about ancient kingdoms. I had never before heard the story of Mansu Moussa, and about his large pilgrimage to Mecca, for example. The same about Djenné. I had read about the wonders of Timbuktu, but Djenné sounds equally amazing, and I had no idea of it.
I wonder what Oumar said about "cultural heritage is the cornerstone of any society, something people can hold on to, no matter what happens". I wish I would know more about what he meant. I guess that what he meant is that, it doesn´t matter if the physical cultural heritage gets destroyed or just plains disappears (which eventually it will at some point in time), since what truly matters is the intangible heritage because that is the thing which might eventually give place to new or further physical cutural heritage. Maybe?
Vriendelijke groeten Daaf
Goedemorgen Daaf wat een mooi verhaal heb jegeschreven over Mali.
Ik deel je verhaal met iedereen die enigszins een band heeft met Afrika en geinterresseerd is in meer dan hun neus lang is.
Knap dat je iedere keer weer iets laat zien wat je doet beseffen hoe fragiel alles is.
Succes met je reis en stay safe!!!!