Charles Taylor in 2003

Of Liberia's Many Sorrows, and Their Roots Weiner, Tim

New York Times (1923-Current file); Sep 3, 2003; ProQuest Historical Newspapers: The New York Times pg. A4

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Larry C. Price/Fort Worth Star-Telegram, 1980

A Liberian soldier preparing to shoot one of 13 government ministers executed on a beach in Monrovia in April 1980.

The executions took place in the wake of a military coup headed by Master Sgt. Samuel K. Doe.

LETTER FROM AFRICA, Tim Weiner

Of Liberia's Many Sorrows, and Their Roots MONROVIA, Liberia, Sept. 2— A few nights

ago, a well-dressed man from the Foreign Minis- try walked out on the veranda of the Mamba Point Hotel, ordered a beer, and proceeded to ex- plain what happened here.

The hotel looks out on the Atlantic Ocean, over a beach where many bodies are buried, and into the horizon where three American warships bob in the mist. Here is where the diplomats, aid workers and reporters drawn to the disaster of Liberia gather to discuss, over drinks and dinner, the death and destruction around them.

All of Liberia's troubles, said the man from the ministry, all the death and misery, were the fault of the aborigines.

The aborigines? The aborigines, said the man from the minis-

try. When, led by Master Set. Samuel K. Doe, they overthrew the government in 1980, the world turned upside down, the bottom on the top.

A few days later, one of Liberia’s most prom- inent lawyers begged to differ. “It was the set- tlers who, in many ways, brought the destruction upon themselves,” the lawyer said.

The settlers? The word has a certain reso- nance in Africa, where most people use it to de- scribe the white Europeans who colonized the continent and created apartheid in South Africa,

The man from the ministry, an urbane de- scendant of a former president, and the distin- guished lawyer, born in a little village without American roots, had divided their nation in two. This divide, they explained, ran so deep that it was like a geologic fault in the earth. It was the source of the wars that have ruined Liberia.

By settlers, the lawyer meant the American Liberians, whose ancestors are the freed slaves who founded this republic in 1847. They have names like Scott, Dennis, Roberts, and Payne. They belong to Baptist, Catholic, Episcopal and United Methodist churches, and a dozen other Christian denominations. Some are members of the Masonic Order established here in 1851. To- day they represent 4 or 5 percent of Liberia's three million people.

By aborigines, the man from the ministry meant almost everybody else in Liberia, the peo- ple who were here first. They belong to the Kpelle, Krahn, Kru, Gola and Mandingo tribes, and a doz- en others. Half are Christians, a fifth are Mus-

lims. Some follow traditional African rites and re- ligions; some belong to secret societies called

Poro and Sande. The settlers made two sets of laws: a civil

law for the civilized, an indigenous law for every- one else.

From 1930 to 1935, the United States and Brit- ain refused to have diplomatic relations with Li- beria because of its sale of human labor — slaves — to Spanish colonists in Africa. Civil rights, in- cluding the right to vote, were not granted to in-

digenous Liberians until 1963. Change came. ‘The population was coming together in the

A land that has long been

torn in two wonders if the

twain will ever meet.

1970's," said Gloria Musu-Scott, 50, the chief jus- tice of the Supreme Court in Liberia. ''There was intermarriage. Very few of the settler population could say they had pure blood. Now, I have a lot of respect for them. They came here with nothing and established something. It was like they trans- ported the United States to Africa.”

Intermarriage did not dissolve disunion. ‘‘I married a Mandingo girl and her father threw her out,” said Nat Richardson, 57, a Liberian geo- physicist whose great-great-grandfather was a brother of William Tecumseh Sherman, the Union general who burned Atlanta in the Civil War.

Nor did it solve inequality. ‘‘There are very few people who can say, ‘I’m an American-Libe- rian” " said Hilary A. Dennis, 58, president of the nation’s biggest shipping company. ‘‘The problem has been one of have and have-not.”

Those tensions grew as the era of colonialism ended and tribal pride and passions rose against the power of the settler community.

They exploded with a murderous 1980 coup led by an ‘‘abarigine,”’ Sergeant Doe, of the Krahn tribe. The “settler” president, William Tolbert, was killed in his bedroom, and 13 government

ministers were tied to telephone poles and shot on

the beach. They raged on as the warlord Charles G. Tay-

lor began fighting his way to power in 1989. (Around that time, Mr. Taylor, who has said he is a child of intermarriage, changed his middle name from McArthur to Ghankay, which means

warrior in Gola.) The tensions never left. Mr. Taylor, after

bringing 14 years of civil war to Liberia, stepped down as president last month, leaving much of the country in the hands of rebels: Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy, a largely Mandingo force backed by Guinea and Ivory Coast, and the Movement for a Democratic Li- beria, also backed by Ivory Coast, and dominated by Krahn tribesmen. The rebels and their politi- cal rivals will try to share power in a transitional government to be installed next month. All par- ties are haggling and maneuvering for position.

“And this is what has led Liberia to self-anni- hilation,” said Chief Justice Musu-Scott, whose court and chambers were looted by government soldiers three weeks ago. “This is what our self- ishness, our lack of nationhood, our lack of com- passion for our fellow citizens has brought our country to. This is what we have done for our country. Our existence as a nation is threatened.”’

The rancor and sadness were banished Sat- urday night at K.D.'s, an open-air roadhouse on the edge of Monrovia, which reopened two weeks ago after a tenuous cease-fire came to town. It was dark, too dark to see any ethnic or tribal dif- ferences on the faces of the people there.

The beer was coid, the barbecue hot. The band began locking for a beat, and found it ina groove somewhere between Nigerian high-life and Jamaican reggae. A singer began mocking Mr. Taylor, who has fled to Nigeria:

People running Running their mouths About Ghankay Ghankay running.

Everybody laughed, and when the chorus kicked in and reprised, everybody sang along:

No more running No more fighting No more war War noe more.

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