We arrive at Timbuktu. I have a great sense of gratitude for our driver, Oumar, who I honestly believe has saved our lives knowing the terrain and his car so well. I feel an immense sense of camaraderie with Dr. Murphy and Almoustapha. I have on my side two individuals that are extremely intelligent, and as anybody truly intelligent, they’re also very funny. They know the land, too. All that helps. I seem to be more concerned about danger then they are. And that helps me, too.
The city is almost abandoned, and reminds me of one of those ghost towns in Western movies. The security seems to me very limited, considering how vulnerable this location is. Other than a convoy from Burkina, I’m shocked not to see any major police or military force, no sight of the French troops, and very limited Malian armed forces. And, of course, no blue helmets from the United Nations, yet. Apparently, the United Nations is once more taking its time.
Driving to the hotel I get no sense that this is a safe, protected city.
During and after the conflict many people fled their homes, and that only adds to the sense of abandonment. It’s estimated that 175,000 Malian are now refugees in neighbouring countries and more than 300,000 are internally displaced.
Still, we do see people in the streets, they watch us pass by with big, opened eyes. There is no doubt, they have grown unaccustomed to seeing foreigners.
Residents continue with their daily lives
The hotel has no electricity. Right now, power is only available in Timbuktu from 7pm to 12 midnight every night.
Running water is restricted, too, and it runs at random times. They bring large buckets of water to our rooms, for washing and the toilet.
The heat is dry, well above 40ºC or 104ºF, and relentless. We’re in the Sahara dessert. Because there is no power, there are no working refrigerators, and therefore nothing cold to drink. I order a warm beer. Africa is the great lesson on the little things we take for granted.
This time, we’re not alone in the hotel. A delegation from Bamako came by plane, sponsored by UNESCO, to do an assessment of the damage to the famous libraries of Timbuktu.
From May 2012 to January 2013, abandoned by the Malian authorities and the world community, the people of Timbuktu suffered unspeakable atrocities at the hands of fundamentalist jihadists who imposed a strict Sharia law.
Our first meeting is with Meiga, a young tour guide, who lived in Timbuktu through those dark months. Before showing us some of the sites, he tells us first-hand, in a broken but impressive English, what happened here in 2012:
“There were many things they were doing…like terrorists were here. After four, five months, they cut the hand off a boy of 24. It was hard for us to stay here. We’re Muslim but we are tolerant. If someone steals we say, don’t do that, because maybe they had to steal to eat because they were poor. They bring the girls to market and beat them. One time, a 16 year old girl was taken by the Islamic religious police to jail…she was raped throughout the night by five jihadists. She cried all night. (…) In the morning she was released. Her family complained to the ruling authorities but they responded only by saying that jihadists would never do such a thing. There is no Malian security and nobody to help us. So we have to accept what they say, but we don’t want to follow them, we don’t want to be like that. I was here all the time.”
Little by little the jihadist imposed on the people a strict, fundamentalist Muslim law: women had to be covered, men could not shave. Three of the most important things in Malian culture were made unlawful: soccer, music and dancing. They destroyed the mausoleums of the venerated local saints, a sense of enormous pride and religious significance for the people of Timbuktu . Many of the manuscripts were feared to be destroyed, but apparently, the most important were smuggled out of town into safety. They destroyed monuments, and covered any depiction of human or animal faces in the traditional local murals and paintings that decorate storefronts.
Even an AIDS prevention billboard still has the face of a human drawing and the face of a dromedary covered in brown paint. They killed all the dogs in the city, which only adds to the eerily silence of it all.
Five times a day, the silence of this town is broken from the local mosques by the beautiful call to prayer. It is very soothing to the ears.
We visit a few of the sites of the conflict, including a jihadist training camp bombed by the French.
We also visit the now abandoned mansion of a local drug lord.
The collaboration between the rebels and the narcos is frequently brought up in conversation. Many times, the descriptions of crimes committed during those dark months in 2012, point at both fundamentalism and people who seem to be old-fashion Mafioso thugs.
Escorted by members of the Committee for the Crisis, we pay visits to both the Mayor, Halle Ousmane, and the Governor, Mamadou Mangara. They all express their gratitude for Dr. Murphy’s brave visit, and pledge support during tomorrow’s mission to the local hospital. In official meetings, you can still notice the sense of confusion and uncertainty in all their faces. The Mayor scorns the insistence of calling for elections in July. “We’re not ready”.
Both the Mayor and the Governor seem impressive and brave figures. We’re grateful and comforted by their hospitality.
The Mayor, Halle Ousmane
It’s time to get some rest.
In the middle of the night an asphyxiating heat wakes me up. My mouth is dry and tastes like the sand of the dessert. It’s pitch black.
I open the French doors of the room that access a small balcony. A nice breeze comes in. Thousands of frogs croak outside my window: it’s a loud, violent, very disturbing mating sound… In my sleepiness I wonder if it would be dangerous to keep my balcony open for the rest of the night.
Could somebody reach the first floor and kidnap me in the middle of the night? No doubt, by now a lot of people know we’re here, and the hotel has no guard. Is it safe for me to sleep? Or should I stay up the rest of the night? I feel my heart racing. I catch myself falling into an anxiety attack. I force myself to stop the feeling of spiralling down. I take a deep breath. My heart slows down.
I look out the window, and for the first time, since I came to Africa, I cry one single tear.
I don’t cry for me.
I cry for the amazing people of Timbuktu who, for over a year now, have lived night after night like this, not being able to sleep in peace.
(For security reasons this blog entry was not releases in real time)
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