ABIDJAN, IVORY
COAST — The air is filled with a nauseating,
thick, black smoke. Three months ago, the smoke came from gunpowder and
vehicles set ablaze — along with horrific “necklacings,” modern-day lynchings
in which a victim is burned alive when a gasoline-filled tire is placed around
him and set on fire.
Today, however, the plumes of smoke are from dozens of dilapidated 16-passenger
vans known as “gbakas,” each filled to capacity and speeding up and down
streets that once were battlefields, laced with potholes, but now bustling with
activity once again.
Street vendors mob vehicles stopped at red lights and press their wares against
the windows. City workers in orange hazard vests busily sweep trash out of the
roads with straw brooms. Bus stations are crammed with travelers bringing
merchandise both into and out of the city.
Earlier in the year, Abidjan’s
commerce came to a standstill and the streets were empty as people hid in their
homes to escape the violence. A noon
curfew was imposed, and even then only those most desperate for food and water
came out in the mornings.
The battle for Abidjan lasted for
months between fighters supporting the winner of last November’s presidential
election, Alassane Ouattara, and government troops backing the former
president, Laurent Gbagbo.
When Gbagbo refused to step down, bloody urban warfare spread across Abidjan’s
neighborhoods, taking the lives of at least 3,000 people. The fighting
culminated with U.N. intervention on April 11 of this year when the
presidential palace was bombarded and Gbagbo finally surrendered.
The months leading up to that fateful day were incredibly difficult for Abidjan’s
populace — no matter which (if any) political candidate they supported. The
city’s water supply was shut off and food prices tripled as a result of the
siege.
Edith Vilquin*, a resident who works as a house maid, spent her life’s savings
to feed her family during the lockdown. “If my children had gone out in the
streets they would have been shot,” she says. “I’m an old lady, so the
militants left me alone.”
She raises her hands above her head and says, “This is how I walked. For a
month, this is how we all walked.”
Like Vilquin, most residents of neighborhoods overrun with soldiers fled to
areas with less direct violence, with a well-established Baptist church in one
such neighborhood opening its doors to refugees from churches across town.
“At one point we had over 60 people here at the church,” Joseph Armoo*, the
church’s pastor, says. “They slept in our Sunday School rooms and we shared our
meals.”
The refugees included other Baptist pastors and their families.
“I can’t stress how much of a blessing our brothers and sisters in Christ were,”
Baptist pastor Kouame Pacome* recounts.
His neighborhood saw some of the worst fighting during the crisis. His church
facility closed after looters took all its furniture, musical instruments and
even lighting fixtures.
Pacome and his wife hid in their home for weeks before finally fleeing to Armoo’s
church. During the month he spent at his newfound refuge, he never went without
food.
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“I had three meals a day, every day. It was amazing,” Pacome says. Although his
church members were displaced across the city, they went to great lengths not
only to telephone and check up on him, but also to send money and supplies.
Armoo credits God with providing for the people taking refuge at his church
compound. “Every day, someone would show up to give us help. One day, a
Christian woman showed up at the gate with a bunch of mattresses for us.”
On other days, believers would come by and give them money to buy food. “It was
by the grace of God that we survived this!” he exclaims.
The refugees came from neighborhoods and ethnic groups known to support
opposing sides of the conflict. Yet they shared their meals and lodging
together.
“Your blood family is a gift from God. It’s good, but it has its limits,”
Pacome says. “There is death, there is old age, there is separation … but
your family in Christ is eternal.”
As the new government calls for reconciliation among the population, believers
are seeing an opportunity to reach out.
“The church’s message has always been one of reconciliation. A person who gives
himself to the Lord becomes a new person,” Armoo says. “After all,” he
continues, “we are supposed to be different. The time is now to show the
difference between the Christian and the non-Christian.”
At times during the conflict, and even after the U.N. intervention, the
fighting seemed on the verge of becoming religious. The U.N. Operation in Ivory
Coast (UNOCI) reports that heavily armed troops raided the premises of a Jesuit
institution on April 17. One of the soldiers reportedly stated they were
attacking under the perception that the Catholic Church supported their
opposition’s forces and was being used to hide weapons. UNOCI notes that not a
single weapon was found.
This prompted Muslim and Christian leaders to meet at Armoo’s church to discuss
how to ease such tensions and dispel harmful rumors.
Many neighborhoods selected both religious and ethnic leaders in their
communities to form “reconciliation committees.” François Gico*, another
Baptist pastor who sought refuge with Armoo, is on one of these committees.
“I’m happy, even proud, to be a part of the community leadership with Muslim
imams,” Gico says. “We have to work together to help keep the peace.”
Both Gico and Pacome have since returned to their respective neighborhoods and
their churches are holding services once again, with attendance slowly
returning to pre-conflict numbers as members return to the city.
“It’s by the grace of God that we are alive,” says Gico, who had a brush with
death when a stray bullet came through the church office
roof and struck beside him.
It is with that realization that Gico and the other pastors have been
emphasizing the importance of evangelism to their congregations. “Yes, we are
hurting,” Gico says, “but in Jesus, people can still have hope.”
“After all,” Pacome says as he holds up his Bible, “if God allowed us to live
through this ordeal, then He has a mission for us.”
*Names changed.
(EDITOR’S NOTE — Haun is a long-term volunteer who works
alongside the International Mission Board’s global communication team. To see
more photos and video from Ivory Coast,
visit www.africastories.org.)
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