Farther on, hell began, and even these well-armed foreign soldiers did not have the courage to peer into it. It was country under the control of Liberian chieftains. It has become customary to call these chieftains, numerous also in other African countries, the masters, or lords, of war — warlords.
The warlord — he is a former officer, an ex-minister or party functionary, or some other strong individual desiring power and money, ruthless and without scruples, who, taking advantage of the disintegration of the state (to which he contributed and continues to contribute), wants to carve out for himself his own informal ministate, over which he can hold dictatorial sway. Most often, a warlord uses to this end the clan or tribe to which he belongs. Warlords are the sowers of tribal and racial hatred in Africa. They will never admit to this. They will always proclaim that they are leading a national movement or party. Most often it will be called the Something or Other Liberation Movement, or the Movement to Protect Democracy or Independence — never anything less grand or idealistic.
Having chosen the name, the warlord sets about enlisting an army. This is not difficult. In each country, in each city, thousands of hungry and unemployed boys dream of joining a warlord’s brigade. The commander will give them arms, and, equally important, a sense of belonging. Most frequently, their caudillo will not pay them. He will say, You have weapons, feed yourselves. That permission is enough: they know what to do next.
Obtaining weapons is also simple. They are cheap and plentiful. Besides, warlords have money. They either grabbed it from state institutions (as ministers or generals), or they reaped profits by seizing valuable sections of the country, those with mines, factories, forests to be cut down, maritime harbors, airports. For instance, Taylor in Liberia or Savimbi in Angola occupy territories with diamond mines. The war over diamonds was waged in the province of Kasai in the Congo, and has lasted years in Sierra Leone. But it is not only mines that yield money. Roads and rivers also generate a good income: one can set up guardposts and collect tolls from everyone who passes.
International relief for the poor, starving population is an inexhaustible source of profit to the warlords. From each transport they take as many sacks of wheat and as many liters of oil as they need. For the law in force here is this: whoever has weapons eats first. The hungry may take only that which remains. The dilemma faced by international organizations? If the robbers aren’t given their cut, they will not let the shipments of aid get through, and the starving will die. Therefore you give the chieftains what they want, in the hope that at least the leftovers will reach those suffering from hunger.
The warlords are at once the cause and the product of the crisis in which many of the continent’s countries found themselves in the postcolonial era. When we hear that an African country is beginning to totter, we can be certain that warlords will soon appear on the scene. They are everywhere and control everything — in Angola, in Sudan, in Somalia, in Chad. What does a warlord do? Theoretically, he fights with other warlords. Most frequently, however, he is busy robbing his own country’s unarmed population. The warlord is the opposite of Robin Hood. He takes from the poor to enrich himself and feed his gangs. We are in a world in which misery condemns some to death and transforms others into monsters. The former are the victims, the latter are the executioners. There is no one else.
The warlord doesn’t have to look far to find his victims. They are right there: the inhabitants of nearby villages and towns. Bands of half-naked condottieri shod in ragged Adidas sneakers prowl ceaselessly over the lands of their warlord in search of food and other plunder. For these brutal, hungry, and often drugged wretches, everything is booty. A handful of rice, an old shirt, a piece of a blanket, a clay pot — all are objects of desire, bring a gleam to the eye. But people have grown experienced. It is enough for them to receive word that a warlord’s army is approaching, and instantly everyone in the area starts packing and fleeing. It is these people, walking in kilometer-long columns, that the residents of Europe and America see on their television screens.
Let us look at them. Most often, they are women and children. The warlords’ forays are aimed at the weakest, at those who cannot defend themselves. They do not know how to defend themselves; they do not have anything to defend themselves with. Let us turn our attention to what these women are carrying on their heads: a bundle or a bowl containing their most indispensible possessions — a little sack of rice or millet, a spoon, a knife, a piece of soap. They have nothing more. That bundle, that bowl, is their entire treasure, their life’s earnings, the riches with which they enter the twenty-first century.
The number of warlords is growing. They are the new power, the new rulers. They take for themselves the best morsels, the richest parts of the country, with the result that the state, even if it does survive, will be weak, poor, and ineffective. That is why, in order to defend themselves, states enter into alliances and confederations: to fight for their lives, their very existence. It is the reason there are few international wars in Africa: countries are united in adversity, share the same anxiety about their fate. On the other hand, there are many civil wars, i.e., wars during which warlords divide up a country among themselves and plunder its population, raw materials, and land.
Sometimes the warlords decide that everything worthy of plunder has been extracted, and that the hitherto rich sources of revenue have dried up. Then they begin the so-called peace process. They convene a meeting of the opposing sides (the “warring factions conference”), they sign an agreement, and set a date for elections. In response, the World Bank extends to them all manner of loans and credits. Now the warlords are even richer than they were before, because you can get significantly more from the World Bank than from your own starving kinsmen.
John and Zado arrive at the hotel. They will drive me around town today. But first we must get something to drink, because already the heat is exhausting and oppressive. Even at this early hour the bar is full of people; they are afraid to walk the streets, they feel safer inside. Africans, Europeans, Indians. I met one of them earlier: James P., a retired colonial bureaucrat. What is he doing here? He doesn’t answer, just smiles and executes a vague gesture with his hand. Idle prostitutes sit at the sticky, rickety tables. Black-skinned, sleepy, very pretty. The Lebanese owner leans toward me across the counter and whispers in my ear: “These are all thieves. They want to make some money and go to America. They are all diamond dealers. They buy the stones for a pittance from the warlords and fly them out to the Middle East on Russian airplanes.” “Russian airplanes?” I ask, surprised. “Yes,” he answers. “Go to the airport. There are Russian planes there, which transport these diamonds to the Middle East. To Lebanon, Yemen, Dubai. Especially Dubai.”
In the course of our conversation the bar suddenly emptied. It became roomy, spacious. “What happened?” I asked the Lebanese. “They noticed that you had a camera. They’d rather leave than risk being caught on film.”
We too walked out. Wet, hot air instantly enveloped us. One doesn’t know what to do with oneself here. Inside, it’s hot; outside, it’s hot. It is impossible to walk, impossible to sit, lie down, or drive. Such temperatures drain all energy, sensation, curiosity. What does one think about? How to get through the day. OK, morning is already past. Good, noon is over. Dusk is finally approaching. But there isn’t much relief at dusk; things are hardly better. Dusk too is stifling, sticky, slimy. And evening? The evening steams with a hot, smothering mist. And night? Night envelops us like a wet, burning sheet.