Robtel Neajai Pailey This, too, is Liberia! When I received a phone call from Washington, DC, one Thursday afternoon in May, I was simultaneously shocked, thrilled, terrified and humbled beyond measure. After getting into Oxford University's Ph.D. program in modern history in early January, I was sure I'd continue there for another three years. As the cosmos would have it, though, I was not granted a funding package substantial enough to entice me to stay. So, after wallowing in self-pity for what appeared to be an eternity, I was prodded by an Oxford buddy to apply for a year-long fellowship to work for the Liberian government, sponsored in part by the Center for Global Development, the government of Liberia, and the family of billionaire Ed Scott. I submitted an application reluctantly, thinking government work would never fit my temperament, and was called almost two weeks later for a video-conference interview. The six fellows were handpicked by President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf herself, based on recommendations by the selection committee in Washington. I left London for Liberia in July 2007. My dad mitigated my fears by reassuring me that though it would mean long hours and rock-solid diplomacy, President Sirleaf wouldn't have chosen me if she didn't think I could handle it. The flight that brought me back landed in the midst of torrential showers that paralleled the tornado brewing within me. It's no wonder that being in Liberia this time around feels like I've literally plunged into my own destiny. I inhabit this land in the eye of a storm, in the midst of a rainy season that would rival an Indian monsoon. I'm a permanent temporary fixture. I exist in a limbo world of contradictions, fragmentation; my life here is like five or six concentric circles, constantly intersecting at certain junctures, but also repelling hidden cracks and crevices. Diaspora returnee, Liberian citizen, young professional, government bureaucrat, activist, cousin, niece, aunt, sister, privileged elite, communalist . . . the social qualifiers continue to multiply with each discovery of another piece of my kaleidoscopic identities. The activist in me wants to duke it out with the government bureaucrat; the world citizen part of me wants to erase the child of the soil whose nationalist verve won't allow her to become a naturalized statistic; my American-reared rugged individualism wants to trump my clan affiliation. Some of my identities are at odds, others seem to blend into one another as I navigate multiple worlds. I am everything partially and nothing wholly, simultaneously. Even my master’s thesis from Oxford about the phenomenon of “return migration” couldn't have prepared me for the concreteness of this lived experience. I have morphed into my own research. As the layers of my identity peel away like the skin of an onion, I discover with each passing day that Liberia is a multi-tiered country, and Monrovia, the capital, a multi-tiered city inhabited by foreign expatriates, Liberian repatriates, returning refugees, deportees, Sirleaf loyalists, opposition party members, victims, and perpetrators, of the war. Forget America's "melting pot," post-conflict Liberia is like a cauldron of chunky stew, and the bits and pieces of disparate shapes and sizes are under constant tension, on the verge of bubbling over. I can sense that tension with every fiber of my being. It's in the way people raise their voices; it's also in the looks of despondency as folks wait in long lines for sardine-packed yellow rickety taxis, while the "big men" and "big women" drive around in their big SUVs propelled by the rubber tires produced by Firestone plantation workers. What people fail to realize, though, is that things cannot and will not change overnight. The road to progress is paved with periods of hell on earth. As an insider looking out for once, I understand that all too well. Which brings me to my new gig. I've been essentially tasked with helping to devise and implement a communications strategy for the Ministry of State for Presidential Affairs, as well as monitoring and tracking progress-to-date as it relates to the country's development agenda, a national vision called the "Poverty Reduction Strategy" (PRS) that Liberia has adopted, and is attempting to make its own. The PRS is supposed to position Liberia to be eligible for debt relief and essential multi-lateral loans and grants to forge ahead with building industry, strengthening fiscal policy, and creating jobs. My new gig is a far cry from academia or even investigative journalism, but I feel like the skills I've developed in the past are hoisting me up. I'm learning a hell of a lot about what it takes to repave the foundation of a broken country, with broken institutions. There are a lot of broken people here. Some walk around with physical, emotional and psychological scars; sores and wounds from the war; others attempt to hide them under a slight veneer of indifference. We're essentially all walking on gravestones, and the reminders of fourteen years of conflict-ridden underdevelopment are stark. Monrovia is what I imagine a decaying city trying to remodel itself looks like. Untouched buildings still have remnants of the war, with their bullet holes, rotting paint and peeling floors. Most homes have no running water or electricity, and we even have to manually flush the toilets on the Executive Mansion floor of the Foreign Affairs building with buckets of cold, still water. In Liberia's congested capital (whose inhabitants number close to 1.5 million of the country's three million population), the big SUVs seems to be in competition with motor bikes—locally known as pem pems—that puff out blackened exhaust and windingly slide through bumper to bumper traffic. The buildings left abandoned from the war look like 21st century Egyptian ruins. They are multicolored and have one thing in common: there are gaping box-shaped holes where windows used to be, and all the roofs have been removed. These ruins are everywhere, and they look especially out of place in the middle of lush greenery, with smog and accumulated mildew caked on the sides of the neglected edifices. Liberia is a beautiful country, really, but it will take decades to revive its physicality. The millions of indentations on the roads resemble mini bomb craters and the sidewalks are like waves; they are carved up and down like the tide of the ocean. Every once in a while, lights flicker here and there with the last breath of the generators hired to power office buildings and well-to-do private residences: generator powered apartments cost an arm and a leg because of the price of fuel, and they even rival the cost of housing in most expensive U.S. cities like Washington, DC. Power outages are so commonplace, folks rarely even notice when generators sputter their last breath and give up. The problems are many and the triumphs tend to pale in comparison. Despite the upheavals, life goes on. Liberians are constantly on the hustle, making moves in the informal sector just to eke out a living. It's an uphill battle, but hope is eternal. Still, the endless list of necessities weighs heavily like a cloak: restoration of infrastructure, poverty reduction, job creation, debt relief, truth and reconciliation, rebuilding governance and the rule of law structures, high crime rate, illiteracy, free compulsory education for all, high incidences of promiscuity, rising HIV/AIDS rates. The thrill of watching firsthand from the sidelines as government handles the Herculean task of rebuilding Liberia has been the ultimate roller coaster ride, and perhaps, one of the real perks of this fellowship. I don't exactly fit the part of a government official, and people are still trying to figure me out. I'm an upright, breathing question mark. I walk to work when most high ranking officials hire drivers to accessorize their SUVs. I eat specialized vegetarian meals when most Liberians would die for a protein-laden dish. My clothes are simple and uncomplicated, lacking the finesse of tailor-made designs. I conserve energy in the office by not turning on the AC on full blast or flicking the light switch when sunlight penetrates my windows. I'm a product of my foreign upbringing, I know, but also a receptacle of wanderlust. I've seen too much of the world to not realize that simplicity democratizes everything. It does away with excesses so that the vast majority of people can live in harmony with one another, without the asymmetry that separates the "developed" world from the "developing" world. For the first couple of months, with a palatial view of the Atlantic Ocean, I hid out like a bandit in my office, paralyzed by the fear that someone would find out I was an imposter; that I'd infiltrated enemy territory, and that this top secret world of government bureaucracy really didn't suit me. Little Ellen, young minister, madame minister, boss lady, boss . . . these are my innumerable pseudonyms. The desk that I inhabit and the office that I hide out in have lives of their own. They personify power, a power that I'd rather not have, primarily because I'm not an insider and I want to be in the shadows, but also because that perceived power comes with a certain level of responsibility and obligation; obligation to my country; obligation to myself. And that's a scary and thrilling thought all at once, because resentments loom large. I've developed this routine of calmly reaching back and dislodging the daggers from time to time. I'm on eggshells around people because of my own metaphysical guilt. I look into the eyes of some and often wonder what part they played in the war, or what atrocities they witnessed or perpetrated. In those moments, I realize how the war scarred all of us permanently, regardless of whether or not we were physically present when the bullets were ricocheting. I get glimpses of the war's wrath on a daily basis, and that insight, too, sets me apart from most people who were here, in the belly of the beast. There's a man in my office whom I see from time to time, and I finally noticed that he walked with a limp. I, in my embarrassing naiveté, asked, with such irreverence, "What happened to your leg?" He said, when he was running from the rebels one day during the height of the crisis in 2003, his leg was shot and it hasn't recovered since. It shut me down, and pain shot through my heart like a needle. I nearly cried, but recovered as he walked away dignified. The war is so much a part of this country's historical context, it has become a living testament to our strength as a nation, but also a reminder of how we went astray, from 1847 onwards. Liberia celebrated 160 years of independence on July 26th and just a week after I arrived, I was shuttled off in a 20-car presidential convoy to Buchanan, on a road that has seen better days. The second largest port city in Liberia is home to my mother's and father's family, and the fireworks display sponsored by the Chinese government to commemorate the occasion troubled my aunt-in-law, who hadn't seen the multi-colored lights explode in the air like that since the 1970s, when fireworks were commonplace on independence day. I saw children cowering in fear, and running like a fire was tailing them, all because the thunderous noises reminded them of rifle and AK-47 shots. Liberia has become this hub for folks coming out of the woodwork, a Mecca of post-conflict living. People flock here like a pilgrimage will somehow legitimize their claims to sainthood. So far, I've run into folks I socialized with in Egypt, acquaintances I took an applied peace studies course with in Switzerland, a Liberian journalist I met while in the Hague covering former Liberian-warlord-turned-president Charles Taylor's trial, buddies I bonded with in Ghana, and of course folks I encountered while in the States. Some characters are genuinely here to make a difference, others here to fatten their pockets and exploit the country's resources, some here picking their noses and staring at the walls (literally). You've got the dubious and genuine dancing a Liberian gig with the likes of those who stayed and never left. The disparities in these different circles are stark. I cannot evade my status, and I'm not fooling anyone by trying to. I used to go home to a massive, conspicuous white three-story building on Tubman Boulevard, one of Monrovia's major suburban thoroughfares (named after our longest serving president, who placed Liberia on the map with his Open Door Policy that some say bred "growth without development"). My apartment was air conditioned, electrified, and I had running water at specific times during the day and evening hours. I shared a DS TV satellite with my landlord, and my uncle's sister-in-law travelled from her modest home three times a week to prepare meals, tidy up the place, and hand wash my clothes. My favorite spot in the apartment was the long, windy balcony that stretched the expanse of the building and afforded a view of the golden domed Capitol Building in the center of town, sprinkled with a mass of green trees; the Temple of Justice; the United Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL) main headquarters in the Pan-African Plaza; and a crashing, roaring Atlantic Ocean to the east. The building was an aberration in this war-torn country, and in many ways, it personified my "otherness." One of the fellows in my program told me I've been the object of conversation at his ministry. Apparently, the person he was speaking to said I was exotic looking (very few women have long, color-tinted dreadlocks here). Liberia is so small, everyone knows everyone, and you're the object of scrutiny just because there's nothing else to do but engage in "che-che polay", local vernacular for “gossip”. The news shocked me a bit because I never would have thought of myself as someone who could be exotic in my country; perhaps in some remote village in the mountains of Italy, I'd expect the stares, but not in Liberia, a country I see as my birthright. "Exotic" spells out stark, irreconcilable difference, but I'd really like this year to be about blending in, becoming a thread in the national fabric, planting my roots firmly, and not feeling like such an outsider for once. I suppose it sobered me a bit, making me realize that the lines of differentiation had already been marked before I set foot on this soil again. This year is about reclaiming that legitimacy through re-acculturation. My Liberian English is rusty, and whenever I speak it, my tongue gets tied and words just come out all wrong, but the more I practice, and falter, the better I get and the more confident I feel about speaking colloquial slang. Liberians speak with a certain level of metaphor that escaped me initially, but now I'm starting to understand and translate the multiple layers of meaning. The literal is an enemy of the Liberian figurative; to gain access is to gain a glimpse of a whole new world. When I'm not playing the part of a cultural scribe or civil servant, I'm spending time with the litany of relatives from both my mother's and father's clans. They come to my apartment, I visit them in their dwellings, we share food, drinks, and swap stories. The activities are varied, some more eventful, such as fabric shopping with an aunt who sews traditional wear; clubbing with my 20-something cousins in the dance halls such as Pepper Bush and Aries—my favorite local joint on the Old Road, which is a holey, muddied stretch of dirt paths; sightseeing in places such as the Blue Lake, one of Liberia's 15-countrywide wonders; and beach-hopping with my nephew, the love of my life. It's been difficult juggling the familial with the professional, and so far I think I've failed miserably because I've got a long list of names I haven't connected with. My only consolation is that I've got nine months left to make amends, to record family history, to fill in the gaps. The dating scene is a bit of a hit or miss because womanizing is such a national epidemic. I've devoted all of my energy to my nephew. He has these dimples that defy logic. He's cheeky, stubborn, and a natural troublemaker, reminding me a lot of myself at that age. Maybe that's why whenever he says, "Aunty Robtel," I melt all over. He's the future of this country, perhaps the personification of the new Liberia: resilient, bold, energized, and defiant; part hellion, part old soul, part child. When I'm not hanging out with family, or playing the dutiful, doting aunt to my nephew, I'm usually lounging with friends—old and new—or devouring a good read as the sun sets on Monrovia. It didn't take long, though, for the quiet routine to pick up in pace. My creativity has been yearning to be fed, so I went in search of something that would swallow me whole. I was recently asked to come on board as editor-in-chief of the Liberia Travel and Life Magazine, a glossy spread of photos, features, and profiles that brands and markets the country to Liberians abroad, potential investors, travelers, etc. It's basically turning a battered, war-weary country into a glamour spread of enticement. The photos are lush, the paper quality crisp, so all I have to essentially do is work on the copy so that it crackles and pops with the current of the layout. It's great being part of a creative process from start to finish, and although it's a bit overwhelming, I'm really pleased with the down-to-earth nature of the team the publisher has already assembled of young, vibrant, hip Liberian eccentrics and artists who border on the temperamental, the philosophical, and the flighty. In addition to the magazine work, next semester I'll begin teaching a course in African literature at the University of Liberia, the country's only public tertiary institution, whose students take mid-terms and finals in an open air enclosure, the "palaver hut", smack dab in the middle of the campus grounds. It’s so thrilling to be focusing on the canon of Liberian literature, literature that most students in the country have very little exposure to. Who knows, there might be a Bai T. Moore in the class, yearning to tell a story about this changing nation in all its glory. Liberians are distinct in speech as well as demeanor. We're bold, brash, and have an edge that probably sustained folks during the war, and makes them resilient today. I'm trying to figure out what the method to our madness is, whether it's a product of our history as a migratory nation, or a product of the conflict. Whatever the context we find ourselves in, there's no place like this. And there's no place like home. No matter how frustrated I get with the pace of existence here—things move at their own rhythm—I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. It’s always more fulfilling to be in constant tension in your own birthright than to be treated like a second-class citizen elsewhere. With every passing day, my identity is solidified and strengthened, and that makes my heart smile even when my soul is weeping. My emotions tend to ebb and flow with the stark realities of this "sweet land of liberty." Although it’s only been three months, I have an inexplicable feeling that this is not entirely uncharted territory, that this is perhaps my destiny. This place, this country, this moment was ordained, and it's within my power to see it through to fruition. Possibilities are endless, and I can allow them to shape and mold me, just as they already have. Copyright © Robtel Neajai Pailey Robtel Neajai Pailey