If the Daily Observer sells out today, it will have its centrefold to thank. One hundred and five mugshots line the daily paper.
These men and women are the first class of recruits for the Armed Forces of Liberia. ”The New Armed Forces of Liberia Welcomes Recruits … If you know that any of these people were involved in human rights violations or criminal activity, call the Investigation Hotline,” reads the banner.
Centrefolds like this mark a dramatic change in Liberia’s — and indeed West Africa’s — history. The military that once preyed on Liberian civilians and staged violent coups is gone. A new generation of recruits will be educated, physically fit and free of human rights violations.
Or that is the goal. The United States has pledged $100-million and the Liberian Ministry of Defence has given its approval.
It is DynCorp, however, a private military contractor, which will help dissolve the old armed forces and recruit and train a new 2 000-strong force. In a country that has never known security for all, the word ”army” is being completely redefined.
When new soldiers begin their training at the fenced-off Barclay Training Centre in the centre of Monrovia, they could be anywhere. The grounds are spotless and state of the art. In a city without running water or electricity, soldiers will have both.
This compound was once home to a different kind of army. During the 1980s, then president Samuel Doe recruited soldiers from his own Krahn tribe, using them to harass other ethnic groups. The man who helped overthrow him, Charles Taylor, used the military as his private militia.
Now Barclay belongs to DynCorp, a private military company. Everyone at Barclay wants to avoid the past. New recruits will be drawn from every tribe and all 15 regions of the country. An extensive media campaign draws villagers by foot, car and bus to take part in the process.
Equally forceful are the efforts to bring women into the new army. President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, Africa’s first female head of state, wants one in five of Liberia’s new soldiers to be a woman.
All applicants are held to the same high standards. They must be Liberian citizens between 18 and 45, free of HIV, TB and drug use, and able to pass basic knowledge and fitness tests before they are invited to return.
Perhaps the most important test for these new soldiers, however, is one of character. Each recruit is subject to a vetting process: in addition to the newspaper centrefolds, DynCorp speaks to their community leaders, family and friends.
Vetting is supposed to weed out bad seeds from the new crop of recruits. But on the streets of Monrovia, people are not sure.
Ezekiel Pajibo runs a non-profit organisation called the Centre for Democratic Empowerment in Monrovia. ”Most people think that it is ex-combatants who are signing up for the army. The recruitment and vetting need to take place in the communities, public high schools, and town centres, so that people can say ‘this man did this or that’.
”Right now, the pictures are printed in newspapers, but only 1% of Liberians read newspapers,” Pajibo said. He points out that few newspapers circulate outside the capital.
Fatomah Hauwa, who sells cloth in the city market, agrees. ”We don’t want the same people in different uniforms.”
In fact, former combatants and former soldiers are welcome to apply, so long as they are clear of human rights abuses. ”The vetting process will determine what kind of person you are,” said Minister of Defence Brownie J Samukai Jnr.
In a country patrolled by 15 000 United Nations peacekeepers — one of the largest missions ever deployed — the new Armed Forces of Liberia will have their hands full when they graduate.
But no one seems to agree on exactly what that will look like.
Security researcher at the International Centre for Transitional Justice, Alex Loden, is among the uncertain. ”The army is presently being designed as a counter-insurrectionary force — but what is it going to do during peacetime? I get the impression that it is not on the agenda.”
In fact, DynCorp’s job is merely to create — not use — professional soldiers. That job will fall into the hands of the defence minister, who wants the army to protect borders and respond to natural disasters.
Liberians like shoe salesman Ike Okafor (28), however, are asking if a combat army is really what Liberia needs. ”We need doctors, lawyers and engineers.”
Although it was disbanded after the Accra Peace Accords in 2005, the old Liberian army is both alive and dead.
A cluster of men living in makeshift shacks outside the new barracks were informed that, despite their military IDs, their only affiliation was with Liberia’s most populous army — the unemployed.
”Never before has a country entirely dissolved its army and left so many men to go and sit down,” said Captain Rufus M Kanneh, a soldier of 16 years in the old army.
Although about 500 soldiers received a $540 stipend, 400 others claim they were excluded.
The men still address one another by their ranks. In early July, they stormed the Ministry of Defence to demand retirement benefits.
And while they are no longer soldiers, many of the men outside the barracks are skilled fighters. After Second-Lieutenant Moses Gaye joined in 1984, he travelled to the US for combat exercises.
Gaye lowers his eyes. ”I served my country and now I have nothing. If a rebel faction comes and offers me money, I will join them.”
Both the UN mission in Liberia and the defence ministry seem unconcerned. According to Samukai: ”We don’t see them as an eminent threat to stability — neither do we see it as something that will inhibit our ability to perform.”
With 15 000 UN peacekeepers patrolling Liberia, these former soldiers may not seem like a threat. But those peacekeepers will eventually leave, and the shaky new 2 000-person military must fend for itself.
On the sheet just before the Daily Observer’s centrefold, publicly submitted poetry talks of war, death and pain. On the other side are printed the faces of the new recruits. Liberia is hoping the page won’t turn back.