Sierra Leone vs, um...
on M&S Diary (Sierra Leone), 04/Sep/2006 14:01, 34 days ago
From now on Maro and I have agreed to fill out a risk assessment form before we do anything here. Our relaxing (not) Saturday was followed up on Sunday with a quiet (not) afternoon watching Sierra Leone’s first international match since the war, against Mali at the national stadium in Freetown. It was the first leg of a qualifier to get into the African Nations Cup.The match was scheduled for 4.30pm, but at 12 we got a call from Edwin’s brother to say that the stadium was already filling up. So we rushed down with Edwin and Francis, the two students who live in our compound, and joined the giant snaking conga of a queue leading into the stadium.Football, you see, barely comes second to religion in Sierra Leone. Everybody adores it, they all have their favourite European clubs, adorn themselves in fake ManU and Chelsea clothing and memorabilia and crowd into makeshift bars every day to watch the games on satellite TV.So we should have known what lay ahead. But then again, nothing could have prepared us...After a few minutes the queue moved forward - but, distracted, we let about 10 people push into the gap. There were some angry words from the people behind us, but this was only the beginning. After another few minutes, we got our first real taste of things to come. About 100 youths charged past the queue in a mob towards the gates, and though we couldn’t see what was going on, the heads of those already gathered in the stadium, at the top of the stands, all turned round and looked down ominously, watching whatever spectacle was unfolding.Meanwhile, the conga line had tightened its grip. People continued to charge the front, but all along the queue others, on the pretence of“just moving through” opened dozens of gaps in the line and pushed their way in. Again, the line tightened, until Maro and I were hugging the people in front, our hands firmly clasping our pockets.Before I go on, let me emphasise that throughout the day the mood among all the crowd was jovial, in spite of actions we found, at times, more than a little scary. Looking back, it was clearly a festival atmosphere. At the time, though, it seemed (well, no, I’ll be honest, it was) anarchic.Certainly, people were found it hilarious that Maro and I were there, and later in the day Francis told Maro something we found really encouraging:“People here admire you and Mr Simon very much. Other white people come to Freetown, drive around in their 4x4s and don’t even speak to the local people. But you walk everywhere, cook your own food in our kitchen and come to our football matches with us.”(This was the real result of the day, and it puts us a little more at ease about our decision to take up too many of the many offers for people to do everything for us we can do ourselves.) Today, it certainly helped matters that we’d brought to the match the Sierra Leonean flag we used at our fundraising event in London.As we moved forward in the queue, we began to see the fray at the front. The riot police were out, whipping the chargers with their belts, pushing people back with shields. When we finally got to the front ourselves, fear steadily setting in with each step forwards, I found myself getting whipped across the arm. The policeman responsible immediately apologised and tried to take us out of the queue and through the gate. But when we said we were with the two (black) locals behind us, the offer was quickly dropped.Finally though, we ran through the gate– only to find another queue up to the stands – but after a few minutes, we came into the stadium itself. Carefully, we chose seats by the fire exit, for easy access to water, etc. Half an hour passed, and our stand was filled to capacity. But with 3 hours still to go until play started, and thequeue stretching half a mile outside, they continued letting people in. We started to get worried. Visions of the Hillsborough disaster flashed before our eyes, and we resolved that if continued we would leave.An hour passed. Still people were coming, clambering over the walls leading up to the stands. We could not leave. Barb wire fences at the front stopped people from moving forwards. We were trapped, and sitting by the fire escape was proving to offer the least means of escape of anywhere. We were terrified. Edwin, meanwhile, continued to reassure us that“This was Africa, Mr Simon, the people will come, but don’t worry, the bad people are over there”. And pointing, he indicated the stands to our right, where fights had broken out and bodies were literally being hurled down the stands over the heads of the crowd and dropped down into the pit just before the barb wire.“Right,” I said to Maro. “If that starts happening here, we’re definitely leaving”. When it did – when the people clambering up the walls of the stairwell were being beaten back, tumbling over the banisters, rolling forwards over the crowd, getting whipped with the policeman’s belt andthrowing punches – we knew of course, that we could go nowhere.Another hour passed. Still people were coming in, and the fact that, once again, we had run out of water, had no shelter from the sun and were getting headaches paled into insignificance before the thought of our being imminently crushed to death.One measly ambulance and one ancient fire engine had, in the meantime, driven into the stadium blaring sirens, and we looked around hopelessly for the first serious casualties in the crowd. But the crews simply climbed from the vehicles, turned away from the crowd and went to claim a good seat on the running track next to the hundreds of policeman who had clearly given up on crowd control some time ago.Well, you get the picture. The riot continued unabated until about 10 minutes before kick-off, when the national anthem brought everyone to attention, and the gates were finally shut.Then, as the whistle blew, it was as though the Pope himself entered a brawling Irish pub. The crowd fell silent. All bodies stopped moving. Dozens of transistor radios kicked into life to pick up the commentary. The game had begun, and we were still, somehow, breathing.It was a disappointing game. Nil-Nil at half-time, a Sierra Leonean (Salone Star) player sent off, and just one or two unsuccessful chances in the second half.Getting out was much easier than getting in, but Edwin (who is doing Peace and Conflict studies at the university here) got into a fight answering a punch thrown at his brother. Finally we were outside, exhausted, fatigued, but somehow rolled along on the taxi-less 2 mile walk back to the house.And yet for all this, we knew that we’d been part of an important event for Sierra Leone. Big national events can be chaotic anywhere, and while I’ve never accompanied English football fans to the world cup, I’m sure I’d much rather repeat today’s experience. After more than a decade of shame, social exhaustion and fawning before the grandeur of the West, Sierra Leone displayed a little nationalism, which it needs dearly if it’s going to grasp and shape a future for itself.Let’s hope the second leg (away!) brings victory then, and qualification for the African Nations.Pictures of the day's events