Fleeing the Jurisdiction

Joining the already-swollen ranks of local expat victims of home invasion, I was awoken on Sunday morning by an understandably shaken housemate who quickly showed the strewn contents of our rooms relocated to the living area, whence they had evidently been taken while we slept for a more private, thorough search. A number of items were missing from each of us; all the more unsettling was the notion that someone had leaned over my sleeping body to snatch my phone. What would have happened had I awoken then does not bear reflection. Thankfully, no-one was harmed. The guards could shed no light on the situation, so we called Court security, who arrived to liaise with the local police. Bleary-eyed and stumbling on a Sunday morning, we trooped to the filthy warren of the Congo Cross police station, whereupon our guards, who had joined us to help explain the situation, were promptly arrested as suspects and detained -  despite our protests. Following another peering examination of our apartment and personal belongings by a throng of security personnel of various stripes, hand- and footprints were found (not by the police) on the balcony railings, revealing that the thieves had likely climbed the building to the second floor and managed to fiddle the locked door to gain entry. The police wanted to take crime scene photos, but had no camera, so asked to borrow one – a futile gesture since we had reported it stolen. Likewise their demand for a mobile phone contact from me.  Statements were taken by yet another set of police, as we struggled to locate the passport of another housemate, who had been in hospital. Fortunately this turned up at the office. Court security, on our expressing concern for our guards, who might yet be held for days during whatever investigation ensues, simply advised us to let the police do their job their way. What that means, I don’t know. As many have mentioned, we cannot, after all, rule them out. Ironically, one of few things of value not stolen were envelopes containing Christmas bonuses for our compound staff, including the guards.

Friends rapidly becoming good friends drove, with the usual number of unanticipated detours and delays, to the beach, where a plate of fresh rock oysters drenched with lime juice alleviated the morning’s shock. Robberies are, I soon learned from conversations that day, viewed by many here as simply a sort of uncomfortable tax on the rich. How I managed to fit that category still puzzles me, but given the excoriating poverty of this country, I am, even with my meagre financial reserves, better off than the overwhelming majority. Not bad management – what more could be done to deter such determined burglars? – but just bad luck. Accordingly, when I caught myself grumbling a bitter insult to the country, I stopped myself, not wanting this idee fixe to lodge itself in my consciousness. Not fair to assess the entirety of this experience on the basis of a run of misfortune. Not useful, when the work requires a shield of optimism. Not fun, when I could take a deep breath, move on and enjoy myself. Mind you, that evening, sensibly taking up the offer of a bed in another compound, indulging in the twin expat luxuries of pizza and cold beer, it was to the guards that my mind turned – at that instant spending the night behind bars in the squalor of a Freetown jail. Their situation is anathema to the rights of the accused that are at the core of the work that I am doing, and last night’s fitful, but nonetheless comfortable, rest feels like betrayal. At this stage, I am uncertain whether my intervention would achieve anything positive for them or for myself. Added to this, I know that regardless of having made the calls needed to alert the authorities and others affected, and keeping a level head throughout, I did not take as active a hand in dealing with the security personnel as I would have liked, nor did I likely offer any real comfort to my housemates. There is nothing for it now than to resolve not to let this setback change my plans nor to allow it to affect my work. Also to kick my emotional ineptitude to the curb and be more alert to others’ pain. I knew coming here that I would be an interloper, and as such, a target. My petty deprivation, of course, pales into utter insignificance in a wider scope. What has been lost are just things. No-one has been hurt. I still get to live in a vibrant, beautiful country doing work I care about and meeting incredible people. I am becoming more patient, and more resilient, each day. There is some security in that, at least.