Liberian Refugee Camp
Last weekend my friend Branson knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go with him to a Liberian refugee camp, about an hour outside of Accra. I didn’t have much time to prepare for this journey, but as I would find out, there was really nothing I could have done to prepare myself.
Once there, Joe introduced me to his brothers, Lawrence, Melvin, and Sunny. Out of the entire family, Sunny is the only one that the U.N. provides monthly food to. Branson and I asked to see the food the entire family is supposed to survive on. It was a bucket of corn, the cornels rotten and moldy.
Lawrence felt it was important to show us the toilet outside of his home. It was beyond anything I could have ever imagined. No one should have to live like that.
I saw the outdoor showers, and the water that pooled around them, turning to waste and attracting mosquitoes.
I saw the cemetery that held more people than my new friends wanted to count.
I saw how the Ghanaian government is digging up the cemetery to sell its sand.
I saw the toilets installed by the U.N. They are expensive to use, and no better than the one outside Lawrence’s home.
I can no longer distance myself from the pain of these people. I saw the way they exist and how death seems to be so close to them.
But the refugees can still smile. They can still laugh and ask to have their picture taken. They, amazingly, still have hope. They do not have clean water, but they still manage to have hope.
