In the hands of a Liberian tyrant
Updated on 17 July 2009
Arrested and held in a Liberian jail for "espionage" whilst making a documentary in Liberia, Assistant Foreign Editor Tim Lambon writes about being held at Charles Taylor's pleasure in 2000.
Half asleep, the noise of men shouting, the clumping of heavy footfalls and the rattle of rifles can bring you awake instantly. I just managed to pull on my boots when they burst in. A braying mob of black uniformed thugs brandishing Kalashnikov rifles, Africa's curse.
My colleagues Sorious Samura, David Barrie and Gugu Radebe were already being roughly forced out the door as I managed to snatch up my shirt and bumbag. A huge hand slapped the small of my back, grabbing my trousers and belt, dragging me towards the door. I swivelled to provide least resistance and started running, harried by the last two goons.
Across the concrete of the compound, towards the gates. My recollection is a silent movie in sodium pink tones and half tones. I can't hear what they are shouting. The gates were open and at first glance the street was at 1am deserted. Terrified, I saw four bodies lying in the road and the headline "Arrested journalists shot trying to escape". I suppressed the image and worked on tactics for the immediate reality.
Turning left, half the fear subsided. Toyota pick-up trucks waited with engines running. No framed death yet. But the other half of the fear was "Where are they taking us?" Hands thrust in pockets to steal precious possessions. Thank heavens for the snotty hanky I'd secreted. Nasty surprise!
On instruction, Gugu, my big Zulu soundman and I vaulted into the truck. Sitting on the floor under the A-frame seat, I was pulling on my shirt when someone noticed the bumbag. Goodbye to all that.
"Hands on the seat!" We complied as the vehicles turning, lurched and roared away from the National Security Agency headquarters.
Tim Lambon, third from left, with the documentary team in Liberia
Standing on the tow bar, the bruiser hanging onto the tail board clocked my watch. "What's that?" he demanded with a sneer.
I remained silent and started taking it off. But he couldn't wait and lunging at it, missed as the Toyota rolled drunkenly around a corner. A moment's panic, an outstretched hand flailing in fresh air. When the corner straightened, he managed to grab the bench and hold on for dear life.
Recovering, he ripped the old Casio from my wrist. Something at the back of my mind smiled at the slapstick. It was the least of my worries.
Demented and drugged police
So started a week at the leisure of Dr Charles Taylor, President of the Republic of Liberia, a vain and petty dictator. Having assisted in the destruction of the country's economy and infrastructure, the regime is presently pillaging what few natural resources remain.
I accompanied a documentary team to Monrovia to talk to Taylor hoping to find out what is going on. Ever suspicious (can this be a guilty mind, I ask myself?) Taylor was not keen to grant either interviews or facilities with his government. A pity as it would have allowed him to put his spin on the tragedy that is his country.
Charles Taylor in 2003
Instead, having allowed the team to film unimpeded for nearly two weeks, the Ministry of Information at the behest of the sinister Reginald Goodridge, press secretary to the President, revoked what had been a valid accreditation. The piece of paper we had clearly stated we could film, but apparently, without the nod from the Executive Mansion, any filming was illegal.
We were detained in the "officers' cell" at the Monrovia Central Police Station on suspicion of spying. Being in the "officers' cell" meant we were saved the indignity of being stripped to our underpants and thrust into the inner sanctum of the "sweats".
That was a fate afforded other unfortunates guilty of such heinous crimes as leaving a night club drunk or arguing with a police officer. The former charge office boasted a single 60 watt bulb and a wobbly ceiling fan. The only piece of furniture was a counter, now turned on its side and used as an impromptu bed, supplementing a filthy foam mattress covering much of the floor.
The problem with being assigned to the "officers' cell" is just that - the officers. The worst of the nutters in black uniforms who transgress their own brutal code, end up marking time in that fetid hole.
Friday night when we arrived, there were six of them sprawled on the floor. We were snapped from our adrenaline stupors at five the next morning when they woke up and immediately started fighting. The struggle flared from punches to cracking heads on the floor and as suddenly as it started, was all over amidst shouts and laughter.
Throughout the weekend, the population of demented and drugged-up policemen ebbed and flowed, culminating with an influx of fifteen or so on the Monday morning. Violence was always there, a mean and capricious spirit hovering just beneath the ceiling, waiting to drop into some crazy's head and send him into a froth over nothing.
After being arrested in more vile places than I care to recall, I've learned that the best policy is to "present no edges". Stand with your shoulders drooping, head forward, hands held like a penitent Presbyterian. Never sit or lie down whilst there is a threat or when anyone new walks into the cell. Be alert to the mood swings and currents in the cell, always listening, but never overtly paying attention. Avoid eye contact and move quickly but unobtrusively away from any aggressive activity.
Terrified, I saw four bodies lying in the road and the headline "Arrested journalists shot trying to escape".
I quickly tutored the others in these tactics and we managed to avoid much of the unfocused aggravation which engulfed the place. Reminded of 18th century woodcuts depicting the chaos of Bedlam, I knew there was a similar element of malicious insanity abroad in the cells which had to be avoided.
After a few days amongst the policemen in detention we realised that it was a safe area for drug transactions to take place. The brutal mobs of black suited policemen who marauded the streets of Monrovia often appear to be high. What we saw in the gaol confirmed that large amounts of cannabis and alcohol are probably to blame.
Before our detention, a warrant to search our hotel rooms had listed "marijuana, cocaine and heroin" amongst the things they were looking for. I found it ironic that it was in the police station that narcotics came into their own.
The loudest and most aggressive of the Monday morning miscreants, having staked their places on the fallen counter, loosened their uniforms and took off their boots. Then they proceeded to smoke their way through at least three huge spliffs each, before falling soundly asleep. The dope was a blessing, suppressing the noise and aggression during our last few hours in the "officers' cells".
Loosing faith in victory
Our Counsel visited us on Monday afternoon. He insisted it was highly likely we would never be charged and anticipated our release the next day. We were heartened but I had a sneaking suspicion they were underestimating their opponents resolve.
Sure enough, less than 20 minutes after our council left we were taken to the steps of the court, summarily arrested and charged with "espionage".
Now on remand, our residence changed to the Monrovia Central Prison. It was late in the afternoon when we arrived and after perfunctory processing, were marched into a long low and very dark building.
The walls were painted boot brown to seven feet, the remainder and ceilings being bright yellow. There was a desultory selection of graffiti on the walls of the cell into which Sorious and I were ushered.
I took a scratchy drawing of an old fashioned helicopter on the west wall to be an omen good for our release. I fly choppers and the Sierra Leonian Ambassador had hinted that they might use one to fly us from the country should we be freed.
High on the east wall was the single word "Victor" which for the first few days I failed to recognised as a name. So set was I on encouragement that I thought it was the result of someone being disturbed before they'd been able to add the letter "Y".
Although I never underestimated how serious were the charges and accepted that the duration of our imprisonment might be extended, I never lost faith in the team of people I knew were working for the victory of our release in the UK.
Welcome to the 'republic'
Life in Monrovia's gaol was remarkably structured. The building was clean, the ablution block though old and destroyed in places was clean and the population was viceless. Smoking was not allowed and if drugs were in use, they were way out of sight.
This regime was maintained, not by the six or eight venerable warders who wandered around with plastic night sticks during the day, but by an internal mafia of inmates who called themselves the "government". Their realm the cell block, by night they ruled the plausibly named "Republic of You-go-sober".
Liberian flag
Their "commander in chief" or "C in C", was a mestiso of medium build, innocuously named Russell. He headed up the 15 man "government" that included a "cabinet" with ministers of finance, foreign affairs, justice and defence amongst others. His lieutenants were a six and half foot Nigerian called the Godfather and Hassan, a wiry Sierra Leonian.
We became aware of the "government" on our first night when someone started drumming energetically on an oil can and the clamour of the cells instantly stopped.
"This is a news-flash from Radio 'You-go-sober'" announced the newsreader several times from the far end of the corridor. What followed was an impeccable parody of a 1950's news bulletin informing the silent inmates that because a "cabinet" member had been transferred, another had been appointed after a vote within the "government".
There followed a series of comments as to the new incumbent's attributes and abilities from several of the senior "ministers" before the news-flash ended with another roll on the oil can.
It seems that the "government" is a self-perpetuating organism, deciding its own hierarchy through which the prison authorities work. After six at night, the whole block is locked and the keys to all the cells pass into the "government's" hands.
They are in charge until six the next morning when the uniformed officers nominally take over again. In charge of not only security but also the economy, Russell and his team supplied us with toothbrushes (welcome after four days), toothpaste, candles and matches at prices that had surprisingly, not been inflated to match our status.
Fear and freedom
After supplying our earthly needs, the "Church of You-go-sober" kicked in. Brother Tobias, a constantly sunny character on crutches with round National Health style glasses, handed out Billy Graham magazines of encouraging stories and supplied David with a Bible.
David read Exodus with zeal, no doubt dreaming of parting the Red Sea out of there. With little else to do and the African mania for Pentecostal Christianity, church services with much singing and chanting are a daily feature of prison life.
Through an experience like this I learned that fear is not a constant. But given that its level is continually rising or falling, I could dissect fear into two distinct categories. There is the fear of bodily harm which arises from what people can do to you in different places, and there is the fear born of how serious the general situation is perceived to be.
The first gives you that metallic taste in your mouth and makes it difficult to keep control of a pen afterwards. The nightmarish ride from the NSA to the Central Police Station on the first night was probably the biggest spike in the fear quotient. The holding cells with their unpredictable sense of imminent violence then kept that dread at a high level.
But the structured environment of the central prison, after an initial peak from the apprehension of something unknown, came pretty low on the scariness list.
The second fear is always in the background. It is additional to the dread of bodily harm, but even when there is no threat to one's person, this generalised fear is there. It fluctuates with news from home, articles in the press or the prognoses of one's council.
This fear is the pulse of a prisoner's morale. Our states of mind were always influenced by the statements from individuals and whether they came true or not.
It led us, after the first few days and several disappointments, to almost write-off the Sierra Leonian Ambassador as a genial but over-optimistic buffoon.
Liberian police officers
Initially our Council, Varney Sherman looked like he had it nailed down, but ultimately, although he had a great deal of flash, the system ran him not as he claimed, the reverse.
The British Consul Brian Brewer however, was always straight and although like us all he initially underestimated the severity of the predicament, he never spun a line that ended up disappointing.
At a low level much of the time, morale plummeted the night they trounced the defence with our late charge and arrest. It clawed its way back slightly with counsel's optimism about the applicability of bail, only to plunge when bail was denied.
Only after that do I think the others started to learn the trick of hoping without counting on the outcome.
When rumours that we were to be released started to circulate, although they disturbed our night's sleep, we dared not hope.
The disappointment would have been unbearable.
Through that long last morning and into the afternoon, we told ourselves that nothing was happening until finally the call came, "Bring your things, you're going home." Only then did we dare to hope.
Former Liberian President Charles Taylor is currently on trial in The Hague for war crimes. He faces 11 charges of murder, rape, conscripting child soldiers, enslavement and pillaging while allegedly masterminding an 11-year war in neighbouring Sierra Leone from 1991-2002. He denies the charges.
