I had intended to go up to the north of Côte d’Ivoire. I still have fond memories of the two years I spent teaching English in a secondary school in Korhogo, the regional capital. I was enchanted by the contrast between my experience as an Abidjanaise and life in the northern region. In the south, the vegetation was luxuriant, with thick forests and plantations. In the north it was the savannah of bare landscapes and dry weather.
On the coast Abidjan was a modern, magnetic city, whereas Korhogo was a small town living at a slow pace. The people seemed different too. In the south, Christianity was predominant, while in the north Islam took precedence, even though in both places traditional religions co-existed. In the south people dressed fashionably in European style or in distinctive contemporary Ivorian fashion. In the north men and women wore boubous — large colourful African robes. If the south was exuberant and rich, the north seemed quieter and more humble.
So, you can imagine my anticipation, a few weeks ago, at the prospect of going back to Korhogo. The plan was to go by car, through Bouaké, the former rebel stronghold, and to continue straight to Korhogo — at least an eight-hour drive, without taking into account the many delays at roadblocks.
My optimism was fuelled by the Ouagadougou Peace Accord, signed last March and hailed as the agreement that would finally bring unity to the country. After numerous other failed agreements, the originality of the new accord was that it was initiated by the two main warring parties, the Ivorian government, led by President Laurent Gbagbo, and the Forces Nouvelles rebels, headed by Guillaume Soro, and mediated by Blaise Compaoré, the President of Burkina Faso. As part of the deal, Soro was appointed as the new prime minister.
In April, despite a few hitches, the military buffer zone patrolled by French and United Nations peacemakers had been dismantled officially. In May, the militia had begun to disarm. Redeployment of public servants had begun progressively.
At last the road to the north was open.
But, on June 29, less than four months after the new agreement was signed and the day I landed in Abidjan, I heard the news that Soro’s plane had been attacked that morning — rockets were fired at it as it was taxiing at Bouaké airport. Soro escaped unhurt, but four people were killed.
“Who did it?” was the question on everybody’s lips. Speculation was rife. After a few days of stunned silence, Soro dismissed talks of dissension within his own ranks. “I know my people … and it is not them,” he said.
Instead he laid the blame on the UN and French troops stationed at the airport at the time of the attack. How could this take place under their noses, he asked. He wanted an international commission of inquiry in addition to the national inquiry that had been set up.
It is unfortunate that Soro’s immediate reaction was to accuse outsiders of sabotaging the peace process. This did nothing to reassure the international community, increasingly tired of the never-ending Ivorian crisis. And it showed that our leaders are not ready yet to take responsibility for our problems.
If the two parties have reaffirmed their will to continue with the peace process since, the atmosphere of suspicion that descended on the country has left the population with the feeling that no miracle remedy is in sight.
Quick enrichment, sudden political status and new business opportunities have arisen on both sides of the frontline as a direct result of the war. These are major obstacles to building a lasting peace.
Going to Korhogo under the circumstances would have been unwise. I decided to try again next time.
Ivorians want to believe that peace is imminent, as does the international community. On July 30, Gbagbo, Soro and several African leaders, including Thabo Mbeki, attended a ceremony in Bouaké to celebrate national reconciliation.
Ivorian dignitaries noted the absence of the two main opposition leaders and Soro’s predecessor, Charles Konan Banny. But for Gbagbo, who had not been able to visit the rebel-controlled north since 2002, it was a decisive moment. In a stadium packed with thousands of people, he lit a huge bonfire of discarded weapons. Soro declared: ”By setting fire to these guns, which were the seeds of destruction, we are marking the end of the war.”
But at some point, amid the rejoicing and applause, the bonfire exploded, sending flames high into the air.
Sheer negligence or foul play? Live bullets had not been emptied from some of the guns. Let’s hope this is not a bad omen.
Véronique Tadjo is a writer from Côte d’Ivoire. She is head of French studies at the University of the Witwatersrand. The views expressed in this article are her own