Bloodshed in the Sahara - The Mali Question and the Tuareg Cause

French troops in Mali

French troops in Mali

A few days ago, French president Hollande declared French intervention in Mali had begun in an attempt to push back Islamist rebels far away from the Malian capital, Bamako, after months of quick and bloody advance towards the heart of the Mali government. The French started with air strikes to destabilize the Islamists, now thousands of French troops are in the country in a major ground assault. Less than 48 hours after this operation (Operation Serval) began, Armed Islamists seized a gas facility in the deserts of Southern Algeria, In Amenas, and held many foreign workers as well as Algerians hostage in what is turning out to be one of the worst international hostage crises in decades.

Many people are asking the question why is France taking on Islamists in far-away northern Mali thousands of miles from Paris? Some are wondering whether this will be another long, bloody war like Iraq or Afghanistan? Is this bullying on the side of France, some have even asked? The answer to these lies in the history of Mali itself and the plight of the Tuareg people in the north, and of course the political landscape of Algeria between 1991 - 2002, when Islamists waged a bloody war against the central government in Algiers. Everything is inter-connected.

This war is about the the Tuareg rebels taking advantage of a weak government in Bamako, to rapidly push back the largely under-equipped Malian forces in the north in an attempt to create a separate state. Tuaregs are nomadic-pastoralists occupying a large part of central north-west Africa stretching all the way through the Sahara desert to southern parts of Libya, Algeria and Tunisia. They have long clamored for independence and a separate state of their own but have been brutally suppressed for nearly a century . Going back as far as 1916, during French colonial times, the Tuaregs have staged 5 major rebellions till 2012, all ending in failure with thousands of Tuaregs losing their lives to brutal repression from the French colonial forces and subsequently the central government in Bamako. 

Mali is a poor West-African country, with crippling levels of corruption and a largely underfunded military force. The Touareg rebellion in the north presented a serious challenge to the government which struggled to combat the insurgence in the north. In 2012, a miltary coup toppled the 10 year reign of President Ahmadou Toure, when a section of the army, who cited the government's inability to equip the military well enough, took over government of the country. In a series of talks and negotiations, power has now been restored to an acting, interim President, Dioncounda Traore. But in the meantime, the Tuareg insurgency has made rapid gains on the ground to take over major northern cities including the historical Timbuktu and more recently the garrison towns of Diabaly in a major push towards the south, where Bamako, the capital lies.

It is this aggression that has triggered the recent French intervention, in an attempt to halt the advance of the Tuareg rebels. But from well documented sources, the Tuareg rebels are not what they appear to be. It has been revealed that actually, the rapid advance is the work of AQIM (Al- Qaeda in the Islamic Mahgreb), the north African arm of al-Qaeda. These fighters have taken advantage of a legitimate Tuareg rebellion to achieve their own aims, which is to have a safe haven for Al-Qaeda in Africa. Why is Al-Qaeda interested in Mali though, you may ask. 

Northern Mali, due to its lack of full government control over the years, have served as a safe area for Islamists ejected from the "dirty war" in Algeria in the early 1990s where they fought a brutal war with the government to establish Islamic rule in Algeria. Many of those fighters are well trained and well armed. They have lived in northern Mali now for many years, mixing with local Tuaregs (who are Animists by tradition), and establishing forms of Islamic codes in the areas of their settlement. During the Tuareg uprising of 2012, what was not immediately apparent was that, the rapid advance was a joint effort by the rebels and well-armed Islamists, who rapidly gained contriol of vast areas in the north, including Timbuktu. The population of Timbuktu have been under the rule of Islamists for around 10 months now since the taking-over by Islamists. Severe forms of Sharia have been reportedly established in these areas, against the wish of the Tuareg populations. An example of a culture clash is that, in Tuareg culture, its the man that covers his face with a turban, the women don't, but in Islam, it is women that have to cover their face. 

Tuareg people

Tuareg people

France and the government of Mali are worried that the north of Mali is fast becoming a safe haven for al-Qaeda militants taking advantage of a largely uncontrolled area and pushing to establish an Islamic state, not only in the north, but throughout Mali. There are French interests in Mali, mainly in the form of thousands of French expatriates, working inside the country and the fact that a haven for Islamists in Mali could be dangerous to France (and the rest of Europe), which is just a few thousands of miles from the heart of France. 

As much as I believe that the Tuaregs are a brutally oppressed people and need to be heard by the world, their mixing with Islamists for temporary gains is cultural suicide to say the least. The situation of the Tuaregs as a people is a humanitarian issue that Western governments are not keen to explore. But help from Islamists will not help their cause either. 

In the light of these circumstances, the French are not wrong to try to push back this advance by Islamists (masquerading as Tuaregs), form taking over Mali. There is a major problem breeding in Africa in my opinion, with Islamic extremists taking root in a number of countries like Somalia, Kenya, Nigeria, Cameroon and Mali. Mali in my opinion is what could happen when weak and  unstable governments cannot control sections of their own countries, opening the doors to fundamentalists with an agenda, which is to put as many parts of Africa as possible under strict Sharia law. These fundamentalists are well trained, well funded and well equipped to bring down most African governments, so maybe outside help is not that bad an option. But we shall see how the Mali situation unfolds in the coming weeks. 

You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum!

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.

“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”

Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.

“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat.

I told him mine with a precautious smile.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Zambia.”

“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”

“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”

“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”

My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S.

“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.”

“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.

“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”

He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.”

Quett Masire’s name popped up.

“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”

At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.

From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.

“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”

I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”

He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the entire Third World.”

The smile vanished from my face.

“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”

“There’s no difference.”

“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they

were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”

I gladly nodded.

“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.”

For a moment I was wordless.

“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”

I was thinking.

He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”

I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.

“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.

He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher, or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”

I held my breath.

“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing. They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse, and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”

He looked me in the eye.

“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama, and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”

I was deflated.

“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own factories. All those research findings and dissertation papers you compile should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at Japan, China, India, just look at them.”

He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”

He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel confident. Become innovative and make your own stuff for god’s sake.”

At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Walter reached for my hand.

“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”

He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”

Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.

Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5 behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.

But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.

I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he would throw me out.

“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)

Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever remain inferior.

A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited, rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining few of your beloved ones.

Field Ruwe is a US-based Zambian media practitioner and author. He is a PhD candidate with a B.A. in Mass Communication and Journalism, and an M.A. in History.

 

Article culled from the blog Mind of Malaka