The View from Here: Lagos - A Pilgrimage in Notations

By Chris Abani 

It begins like this.

In London, in a Turkish restaurant, peering into the thick sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup, nine years since I have been home, I say: I miss Lagos. The next day, my friend Safak Pavey sends me a poem she translated by Turkish poet Orhan Veli Kanik. It is titled, I Am Listening To Istanbul. Here is the first stanza:

Lagos, Nigeria PHOTO CREDIT: Satanoid/FlickrI am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed

First a breeze is blowing

And leaves swaying

Slowly on the trees;

Far, far away the bells of the

Water carriers ringing,

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

Years later, in another restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, over dinner in Little Tokyo, Gaby Jauregui tells me how much the Lagos I write about in my novel GraceLand makes her yearn for her Mexico City. In that moment I realise how much cities are not just geographical locations but psychic spaces of existential melancholy and desire. That we are always listening to the city inside us: Lagos-London-Istanbul-Los Angeles- Mexico City. There is only one city in the world and I guess Italo Calvino is right: it is an invisible city.

And yet these invisible cities of the melancholic soul are geographical places of real joy, of concrete despair and of inventiveness that people who live away from the urban will never fully understand. This is Lagos.

My first memory of Lagos is one I cannot trust. I was four, maybe five years old and my family, my mother and my four siblings, had just returned from London where we had fled in 1968, as the war in Nigeria raged for its second year.

Ikeja airport in 1970 had few amenities to offer us, particularly since my mother had been a vocal pro-Biafra activist in England during, one of the many war wives who spoke up against the British government’s support of the Nigerian side. We were held for questioning in a hot tin-roofed hangar for hours. This is only what I remember.

Lagos "typical traffic" PHOTO CREDIT: BBCWorldServiceAn okra and palm oil stew that nearly burned my lips off is my second memory of Lagos.

It was 1980 and my mother, my sister and I were on our way to London. My first time since we had left after the Biafran war in 1970. Ten years.

We were on our way to Lagos by car because the flight we were supposed to take from Enugu to Lagos had been cancelled – and then rebooked at twice the price to other passengers. So my brother had accompanied us by road and after an eight-hour trip in a nauseously hot taxi, we had stopped in Shagamu, fifty miles outside Lagos, for a roadside café lunch. Even then, Lagos had sprawled out to Shagamu. 

My third memory of Lagos is about my Uncle William. I didn’t know I had an Uncle William until he died when I was fifteen. Two men appeared on our doorstep claiming to come from my Uncle William’s congregation. It turned out that having failed and left school in Germany and not returned to the village for my grandmother’s funeral, William was exiled not just from the family, but also from the memory of the family. And yet he haunted it, from his small Santeria-based church in the worst ghetto of the city, Maroko. 

It was in search of this uncle, this memory, this loss that I couldn’t even shape my tongue around that I went to Lagos for the first time as an adult: hitchhiking alternately by train and lorry; a stupid but exhilarating journey. It was in Maroko that I found the Lagos inside me.

Lagos, Nigeria PHOTO CREDIT: Satanoid/FlickrWhen we arrived in Lagos, by the tollgate out near Mile 12, the sign by the roadside simply said: This is Lagos.

Not welcome to, or enjoy your stay. I remember even then thinking it sounded like a warning. I may be lying, of course.

Somewhere in another Lagos slum, a child is peeping through a crack in the wooden wall of a shack built on stilts in a swamp. In the distance, a line of skyscrapers rise like the uneven heart of prayer.

There are more canals in this city than in Venice. Except here they are often unintentional.

Gutters that have become waterways and lagoons fenced in by stilt homes or full of logs for a timber industry most of us don’t know exists. All of it skated by canoes as slick as any dragonfly.

The two street children begging on the freeway take a break. Sitting in the middle meridian, they look like an old couple making do with a poor lunch as they wind down to death.

Okobaba, one of the slums in Lagos PHOTO CREDIT: TripadvisorChrist Church Cathedral rises from the slump of land between the freeway and the sea and Balogun market, like Monet’s study of Rouen Cathedral. In the shadow, in the motor park that hugs its façade is the best ‘mama-put’ food in Lagos. Its legend travels all the way across the country.

The seasoned Lagosian gastronomes can be heard chanting their orders, haggling with the madam – make sure you put plenty kpomo – or – no miss dat shaki. No, no, no. Dat other one. There can be no sweeter music, no better choir. In the distance, bus conductors call like Vikings from the prows of their ships, testing the fog of exhaust fumes – Obalande straight! Yaba no enter!

In the shadow of highrises, behind the international money of Broad Street, the real Lagos spreads out like a mat of rusting rooftops.

 In Ikoyi Bay, boats dot the sea, sails like lazy gulls catching the breeze. Across the bay, the millionaires’ village that was once Maroko sits in a slight mist. I think it is the ghost of that lost place haunting the rich to distraction so that even their twelve-foot high walls, barbed razor wire or broken glass crowning them, or the searchlights, or the armed guards, cannot make their peace with the moans of a woman crying for a child crushed by the wheels of bulldozers. Or maybe it is just the wind sighing through palm-fronds.

"Millionaires homes" Lagos, Nigeria PHOTO CREDIT: Satanoid/FlickrLike in any world city, there are so few original inhabitants that they wear their Eko badges like honour.

If Lagos is a body, and the oil pipelines crisscrossing it are veins, then the inhabitants are vampires. This vampirism is new. It started slowly. Someone somewhere bored a hole into the pipelines to steal some oil – a drum here and there. Then it began to grow and the people like hungry mosquitoes began to drill more and more holes, taking greater and greater risks.

The city bled thick sweet crude into containers that were sold and resold and then the city rebelled and the veins, tapped too much, too quickly, too dangerously began to explode. Like a victim reclaiming its body from a deadly virus, the city began to kill its parasites, its succubae.

This is not a fairy tale. Thousands of Lagosians die annually.

This city must go on.

Badagry unfolds lazily into the sea, a stretch of land so beautiful that when the local king traded it in a bad treaty with the English, his regret named it: bad agree. Badagry. This is true. Lagos is a land of myth. It never existed before the naming.

Beach, Nigeria PHOTO CREDIT: Zuorio/FlickrThere is nothing like Bar Beach on a Sunday afternoon. The sand is white, the diamondshaped all-glass Bank building across the street reflects the water and makes you think it is a wave frozen in time.

Children ride flea-infested horses, squealing with that childish delight that is a mix of fear and awe. Slow roasting lamb-suya blankets everything with desire. A cold Coca- Cola here tastes like everything the ads on TV promise – I shit you not.

In one corner, as though they stepped out of a Soyinka play, a gaggle of white-garbed members of the Order of the Cherubim and Seraphim Church dip themselves in the water, invoking the Virgin Mary and Yemeya in one breath.

Gleaming cars – BMWs, Lexus’s – line the waterfront, spilling out young people giddy with money and power and privilege and sunshine.

All of this belies the executions that used to happen here in the ’70s. Families gathered to cheer the firecracker-shots from the firing squads dispensing with convicted robbers.

The complex network of spaghetti-bridges that make up the Berger-built freeways limns Lagos like the cosmopolitan whore that it is. Driving at night across them, you end up on Third Mainland Bridge and the dazzle of lights on the water is more breathtaking than anything you can imagine.

Lagos never sleeps. Ever. It stays awake long after New York has faded in a long drawnout yawn, matched only by the vigil of Cairo. With a population of over 15 000 000 people, it is one the largest cities in the world. On the Internet, the tourist board promises:

There is something for everyone in Lagos. If your interest is sport,

we have it. Soccer (football), tennis, swimming, golf, sailing

– all within easy access. If you enjoy volunteer work, it’s here

– International Literacy Group, the Motherless Babies Home, the

Pacelli School for the Blind –- just to name a few opportunities.

Perhaps you are a collector. You’ll have plenty of chances to

search for artifacts of West Africa. Masks, trader beads, artwork,

woodcarving, drums, fabrics, walking sticks. You can find it all in

Lagos. Own your very own beach hut on one of the local beaches. We

have various clubs – both social and business – representing many

nationalities. Have you ever wanted to go on a safari? Lagos is

your gateway to East Africa. We offer culture in the MUSON (Musical

Society of Nigeria) Centre, the German-sponsored Goethe Institute,

and many other venues.

National Arts Theatre, Lagos The way a man sits smoking on the hood of his burned-out Mercedes Benz it is clear he wants you to know that this is all temporary. He will be rich again.

By his feet, a rat skulks for cover. In the street in front of him, dead rats thrown from houses litter the street like a fresh rash of dried leaves from fall.

In front of the National Theatre, shaped like an old Yoruba crown, the statue of Queen Amina of Zaria, on horseback, sword drawn, face pulled back in a snarl, reminds you that here women will not bow to men, I don’t care what the propaganda says.

In Victoria Island, there are houses that even the richest people in the USA cannot imagine owning. In Ikoyi, the money is quieter: the thing here is not the house, it is the land and the fescue lawn and the trees and the quiet swish of water against a boat docked at the end of the garden.

The poor go out of their way to drive past them.

Everyone can dream.

"Keep Lagos clean" - PHOTO CREDIT: Statanoid/FlickrUnderneath the government-sponsored billboard that says Keep Lagos Clean, a city of trash, like the work of a crazy artist, grows exponentially.

Even when under Abacha there were no stamps in the post office and almost no landlines, mobile phones and Blackberrys never stopped working, and online banking was never more than a click away.

This is the thing here. With or without the government, life goes on and goes on well. Maybe in spite of the government.

Lagos is no place to be poor, my brother.

Even though the rich don’t know it or see it from their helicopters and chauffeur-driven cars, for most of the poor, canoes and the waterways are perhaps the most popular means of travel. That and the rickety molue buses.

The sign over the entrance to the open-air market announces: Computer Mega City. This is no joke. There is everything here from a dot matrix printer and the house-sized Wang word processors of the ’80s to the smallest newest Sony VIAO. In Lagos it is not about what is available, only about what you can afford.

The Hotel Intercontinental looks like something out of the Jetsons. It would be more at home in Las Vegas. Inside here, you could be in any city in the world.

In Idumota, the muezzin at the Central Mosque has to compete with the relentless car and bus horns, the call of people haggling, the scream of metal against metal and the hum of millions of people trying to get through a city too small for them.

And yet, hanging tremulously in the heat, there it is, that call to prayer. And all around, in the heart of the crowd, as though unseen snipers are picking them off, the faithful fall to the ground and begin praying. As though it is the most normal thing in the world, people, buses and cars thread around them.

Really? There is a large fountain in Tinubu Square?

The Lagos Marina looks like the New York skyline. Don’t take my word for it. Check Google images.

Far away from where the heart of the city is now, you can still find the slave jetty and the slave market. Don’t be fooled. A lot of Lagosians got rich selling slaves. It was a trade, remember?

Today, in Los Angeles, on National Public Radio, I heard a programme that was expounding on the world-class gourmet restaurants of Lagos.

Later, as dusk falls over the city, listening to Fela Kuti on my iPod and drinking a soothing latte, I am listening to Lagos with my eyes closed.

I am listening to Lagos with my eyes closed.

- Originally published in the African Cities Reader 

The View from Here: Abbottabad and Washington Cabbies' no-holds-barred views

DC Taxi Cab PHOTO CREDIT: DrewSaunders /flickrby Imran Garda

"1010 Wisconsin Avenue please," I said, as I shuffled into the back seat of my taxi, snappily pronouncing the digits as "ten-ten".

The cabbie had the frustrated, sweaty look of a smoker trying to quit: big stocky fingers wrapped around his steering wheel, and what looked like a normally well-cultivated moustache that had missed a day or two of TLC from its owner.

"1010 wisconsin, huh? Why not 9-9 Jefferson? Or 8-8 Lincoln? Or 7-7 Washington"

A tiny flush of insecurity gripped me for a second. I was sure that Wisconsin Ave was named after a state, and the state in turn named after a river. Did I miss a former President called Wisconsin? Nevertheless, I'd accepted the premise and, like a game of poker, raised him one.

"So if I told you to take me to number 6-6-6, what would the street name be?"

Smirking - hoping my eschatological, satanic reference didn't go unappreciated.

"Obama Street, of course." He rolled the 'r' of "of cour-r-r-se". He seemed Iraqi, but I wasn't entirely sure.

"And why Obama?" I asked.

"Because he's an idiot. He should've waited six months. Very stupid."

"For what?"

'You can't trust' them

"Six more months to tell us they killed that guy, and he would have won re-election easy. Now the Republicans have too much time."

Smiling, semi-puzzled, I enquired: "So after bin Laden was killed the other night, they should have kept it a secret until the end of the year?"

"No, no..." he lectured, "we all know he was dead years ago. Bush knew. Obama knew, but he was stupid."

"But what about this operation? The Navy Seals and the compound and all the firing. Who did they kill?"

My cabbie, unwavering, continued: "Look, you can't trust these guys, with Saddam Hussein's sons Uday and Qusay, after they shot the guys, they showed us the bodies. Also that other guy ... what was his name?”

Me: "Zarqawi?"

"Yeah, they showed the body. This time, as usual, they're trying to trick us. They're all the same; Obama is the worst."

I'd reached my destination. My business was swift, it was time to flag down another taxi.

Beaming a gentle smile on an olive-complexioned face, framed by a fluffy white beard, his musallah prayer mat folded immaculately and wedged between his left-thigh and the driver's door - my next cabbie was Pakistani.

I gathered from the tone of his Urdu-language question that he was asking if I was from Pakistan. I was sorry to disappoint him. I told him I'd love to visit Pakistan at some point in the near future though. 

"My country is in the news again, for the last five, six years - only bad news. And now this bin Laden killing."

He didn't seem to doubt the veracity of the killing like my earlier friend.

"But this government is doing too much bad things."

"You mean Zardari?" I asked.

"Not just him. Military, ISI ..." he said, shaking his head in lament.

"Do you think they knew bin Laden was there all along?"

"Of course, of course they knew..."

And as we drove along the banks of the Potomac in Georgetown, Washington DC, he pointed across the river, to Virginia.

"You see where he was staying in Abbottabad is like staying next to Pentagon!!!"

He had a point.

"And if they didn't know. All this talk of Pakistan, great nation, Pakistan with nuclear f***ing weapons, Pakistan with great military - all this talk but when the world's most wanted terrorist is killed by foreign government in operation near Islamabad. Our President says he found out by telephone afterward from Barack Obama. Can you believe? What a joke!"

No-holds-barred opinion

Since I've been in this city the cabbies have never failed to give me a no-holds-barred political opinion and have never failed to illuminate my day.

There are some who, like one elderly Nigerian cabbie, drove so slowly I felt we were going back in time (but it was worth it). He had the quirk of providing me with the etymological root of every street and major landmark's name in the capital - and linking it to America's history.

There was also a cabbie who gave me a vivid, first-hand account of the civil-rights movement. And another from the Zaghawa tribe of Chad, the same as his country's President Idriss Deby. He claimed he patriotically fought for Deby during Chad's civil war, but became disillusioned and left the country when, he claims, Deby began dishing out special privileges to his specific subclan of the Zaghawa, the Bideyat. His analysis on the conflict in Darfur, Sudan, was fascinating.

Yes, I've also had my fair share of some who, when delving into political discussions, start to bring up powerful cabals and illuminati; Rumsfelds and Rothschilds and new world orders; patsies and false flags; photoshop theories and smoking guns; Mossad attacks and anti-Christs, the CIA and inside jobs ...

But given the frankness of opinion, colourfulness of thought and sheer exhilaration of it all for this inquisitive passenger, I wouldn't trade any of DC's cabbies for anyone, not even some of our numerous analysts and experts that we interview on the airwaves.

Particularly those suited chaps from among the "thinktankerati" of the capital, who tend to regurgitate chatter from the Sunday morning TV talk shows, or the editorials in the New York Times, or Stratfor, or The Wall Street Journal or Foreign Policy magazine. 

Or those who say: "Well my sources within the White House are telling me this issue is of deep concern for the administration and the President is monitoring the situation closely because..." And I often think to myself: "I'm quite sure I just read a press release from the White House (that hundreds, if not thousands, of us receive), talking about deep concern in the administration, the President monitoring the situation."

Well it did go to my expert guest's personal inbox. So on a technicality I'll allow them to say: "My sources are telling me."

That's where I reflect on my favourite sources, never shy to speak their minds, from Bush to bin Laden, the Pentagon to Abbottabad, steering their wheels as the world steers out of control.

by Imran Garda - originally published on AlJazeera May 4, 2011 under Creative Commons Licensing 

The View from Here: The Wisest Person I Know

Couples everywhere, as spring shone her eccentric self. Beautiful.

Belgrade celebrated International Women’s Day this March like I’ve never seen before. While not an official state holiday, it may as well have been. Women, young and old, roamed the city smiling, so many nonchalantly holding single wrapped roses—red, white, pink—in their hands.

In celebration of women around the world, the winter seemed to recluse to her seasonal hibernation, allowing for lovers to lock their hands and wander the parks and streets of Belgrade. It was a beautiful tradition—a legitimate reason to give someone a rose. And who lead this floral festival? The YOUTH! They had finally come out of hiding.

When I first arrived in Belgrade, Serbia—where I’m doing some media-communications work for the United Nations Development Programme—it was drab, cold, and old. The buildings, undoubtedly relics of the country’s communist past, as if shivering in the snow, stood grey and dreary. But beyond the weather, roaming the streets, searching for the best coffee and late-night food, I noticed that something was missing: young people. They seemed to have gone to sleep, waiting for weather that wouldn’t necessitate layers or brandy, or both. And now, they were out, and in drones.

Though I haven’t seen a lot in my first few weeks in Belgrade, I don’t get the feeling that youth activism here—the social change sector, so to speak—is even breathing. It seems dead. Unemployment, poverty, and apathy seem to have overtaken any youth leadership in the country; a far cry from the youth fervor that led to the fall of Slobodan Milošević’s dictatorship.

I was talking to some young Serbians at a coffee shop a few days ago, and it really seems that they don’t care. There is an unequivocal sense of … blah! The government is ineffective, they say. There is corruption. There are no social services. But, worst, at least from those I spoke to, they don’t think they can make a difference. Hope is gone. Maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe those that I talked to are a terrible sample. But I think I am right.

Thankfully, inspiration from my fellow youth came from elsewhere this week: the streets of Libya. As stories continue to emerge of the battles and blood, strange thoughts are stirring within my inner activist. Thoughts about child soldiers. I never thought I’d be writing this, or even thinking it, but maybe there can be a context for them. Maybe their existence isn’t always morally repugnant.

Before you instant label me a child-rights-hating-bigot, let me explain. Please.

I recently read an article about the revolution in Libya, which told of how there are young women and men, joining the resistance. These teenagers aren’t being kidnapped and forced to fight, like any traditional notion of child soldiers. Instead, they are protecting their homes, they families, their dignity. They believe in something. They are fighting for democracy.

The international community has long condemned the use of child soldiers. The United Nations, on numerous occasions—the Convention on the Rights of Children, the Rome Statute etc.—has outlawed the use of children in combat. I too have always been appalled at the very idea. And I am in no way advancing a cause for the use of children, especially young children, in the choice-less atrocity of forced combat. Never would I advocate for the abuses that we’ve seen in places like Sierra Leone. But could there be the exception to the rule?

Maybe it would make me feel better if I changed the name and didn’t call them child soldiers, at all. Maybe, they’re better called adolescent soldiers. Freedom fighters? Activists? Or maybe just change-makers? What’s the difference?

I am friends with a few former child-soldiers. Their experiences were horrifying, scarring, and grave violations of human rights. But this, this seems different.

Often, when faced with questions of such moral dilemma, I turn to my father: my mentor and the wisest person that I know. I wonder what he would say? He is the human being in the world that, almost surely, loves me more than anyone else. I wonder if he’d tell me to fight. I mean, he was kicked out of East Africa at the age of 10, his family forced to flee the persecution and danger of nationalism’s daunting face. If he had had the chance to fight, if that chance was there, would he have? Would he want me to, if it were my country? What if this was happening in Canada? There’s little doubt in my mind that I’d be on the front-lines, fighting for the soil that has given me everything. If I had children, what would I tell them? I really do wonder what Papa would say, but I don’t have the audacity or courage to ask.

My musings it seems have found no other form than this column. Revolutions, it seems, don’t only change the lives of those on the ground; they challenge the notions, the norms, and the perceptions of peoples all across the world.

I haven’t found an answer, but let’s see what Belgrade’s alcoves share with me. In the mean time, I’m praying: for the victims of Japan’s earthquake and for the people in Libya.

Today, that’s the view from here.

--- Nejeed Kassam is a Canadian youth activist and is the founder of the international NGO’s `End Poverty Now’ and `Networks for Change.’ Nejeed is currently writing two books including the sequel to the “High on Life” book and is a young activist, at the moment working on his international resume in Belgrade, Serbia for the UN Development Programme.   

The View From Here: Thoughts of a Young Activist on Democracy

By Nejeed Kassam

When I started writing this column, I was supposed to be taking off my shoes, carefully dropping them into a non-descript plastic grey tub. I was supposed to be, expertly and publicly, removing my belt and placing it carelessly atop my shoes, double checking my pockets for coins and keys, while I awkwardly wait, with hundreds of others, to have my privacy quasi-violated. Airport security.

Those of us who have had the privilege to fly, and it is a privilege, know this routine. But often, and especially in my case, the drear of security and line-ups is overridden by the excitement of the trip: the adventure that is to commence, or the freshly-imprinted memories, from the one that has just happened.

For me, it was to be the opening paragraph in my latest story: Cairo. The land of limitless minarets, of ancient Pharaohs, and the Nile’s daunting mischief. My second trip to the enchanted city in less than 14 months. This time, I was to be interning for the United Nations Development Program. Every young change-maker’s dream, right? Waking up and going to a building that flies that sky-blue flag. Making a difference. Doing something for the world?

And then it happened. Democracy, or something like it. Egyptians spoke, like maybe never before. The people forced that their voice be heard. It was incredible. For years, in textbooks and on the BBC website, I had read about it, studied it, even dreamed it.

And now it was happening. And I was to be there, finally experiencing it. The activist in me began to quickly to show its adrenaline-charged face. Was this my Tiananmen Square? I started thinking about the photos I’d take, the articles that I’d write, and how important it was that I, Nejeed Kassam, youth activist, writer, change-maker, be there. Soaking it all in; experiencing the people’s will: demos kratos.

My excitement came to an abrupt end: my flight got cancelled. In fact, almost every flight got cancelled—the result of a fading dictator’s feeble grasp to hold power: the curfew. The UN started to evacuate all its non-essential personnel; the UNDP (temporarily) suspended most of its operations; my medical insurance was no longer valid; my government strongly advised me to stay home. My trip was cancelled. My story’s pages left blank.

And I was angry. This was supposed to be my moment, my chance. And I was stuck with an unused $61 visa; all I had to show for my adventure. But, then I started to actually think about it. Why exactly did I want to go so much? Could I possibly be that audacious and arrogant? What could I possibly contribute while I was there? A column in the newspaper, maybe a few photos?

I claim to be an activist. But what does that even mean; what was I doing? Activism is a verb, not some passing or trendy term used by self-righteous hipsters. I believe it to be about making meaningful contribution, doing that something that I always dreamed about, even if it came in baby steps. For me, in Egypt right now, there was nothing for me to give, no action for me to truly take. The worlds of Twitter and Facebook, of text messages and blogs were livelier than ever—barely inhibited by the suspension of the internet. Egyptians, and especially my fellow youth, were sharing the stories, the pain, and the excitement—and much better than I could. Wanting to go to Egypt, without job or real reason, what did that make me? Selfish and hypocritical.

If I am actually the activist that I claim to be, if I take this role seriously, there is so much I need to learn—and not just about politics, or development, or revolution. But also about myself, and my place in the world of social change. Egypt, and all that it has led to, has, for me, not only been a great lesson in democracy, but also a lesson in activism, and one that I’m grateful I’m learning.

Where will the next revolution be? Yemen? Bahrain? Libya? Maybe somewhere that nobody expects. Who knows. I may be there, I may not be. But, I don’t think that really matters.

They say that charity starts at home… maybe activism does too.

*UPDATE:  Nejeed Kassam was just redeployed by UNDP to Belgrade, Serbia from where he will file reports for HUMNEWS.

--- Nejeed Kassam is a Canadian youth activist and is the founder of the international NGO’s `End Poverty Now’ and `Networks for Change.’ Nejeed is currently writing two books including the sequel to the “High on Life” book and is a young activist, looking for his next international assignment.  

The View From Here: Niger - Going Beyond the Current Malnutrition Crisis

Interview with MSF President, Dr. Marie-Pierre Allié

Niger 2010 © Alessandra Vilas Boas/MSFMothers wait to receive ready-to-use therapeutic food at a nutrition program in the district of Guidan Roumdji.

Dr. Marie-Pierre Allié, president of Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), returned recently from a trip to Niger. With another nutritional emergency underway, new preventive approaches are emerging in the struggle against malnutrition.

What is your analysis of the situation?

Clearly, Niger is experiencing a serious food and nutritional crisis. Last year's poor rainfall produced inadequate harvests in a food security context already weakened by a gradual increase in food prices over recent years.

The most recent data on the country's nutritional situation showed that rates of childhood malnutrition are above the emergency threshold of 15 percent in many regions of the southern part. In certain areas, such as Maradi, where we work, one child out of five is suffering from acute malnutrition. And four percent of children under 5 [years of age] suffer from the most severe form of malnutrition.

Some people describe this as a "famine," saying that this is a "crisis of previously unheard-of proportions." Is that true?

It would be counter-productive to exaggerate. We should be careful about our choice of language. We don't have to go to extremes to dramatize the situation in order to emphasize that this is a serious situation, nutritional indicators are alarming, and an appropriate response must be organized. Furthermore, we should also put the current situation in perspective with respect to recent years. Although the crisis of 2010 is certainly more serious, it is not radically different than those the country has experienced in the last few years. Unfortunately, we are witnessing recurrent crises that vary only by intensity from year to year.

Therefore, the key is not to rank them by severity—which would also be extremely complex—but, rather, to emphasize their periodic occurrence.

Is there a difference between the crises of 2010 and 2005?

Yes, in terms of the breadth and quality of the response. Both have changed dramatically since 2005. At that time, response was slow, both because the regime in power was unwilling to acknowledge the problem and because of the lack of effective warning and response mechanisms. MSF sounded the alarm, calling for deployment of international aid and the adoption of new treatment protocols.

At that time, we heard a lot of talk about "ready-to-use therapeutic foods."

That was the first time these new products had been used on a large scale, allowing us to treat cases of severe malnutrition on an outpatient basis. Thanks to this strategy, MSF's sections managed to treat 63,000 malnourished children. It had previously been impossible to treat such a large number of children because of the burden (volume and cost) their hospitalization would have represented. Since that time, Nigerien health authorities have adopted these new strategies for treating severe malnutrition, thus increasing the number of children who can be treated.

However, Nigerien authorities seem to have been less open concerning nutritional issues after 2005.

Yes, there's a certain paradox. President Tandja chose to deny the seriousness of the situation and the significance of the stakes involved in responding appropriately. In 2008, the French section of MSF was forced to leave the country.

However, some important changes did occur, including new protocols for treating malnutrition, free medical care for children under five, the adoption of new standards for defining severe malnutrition (recommended by the World Health Organization) and, last, local production of ready-to-use therapeutic foods.

What measures have been adopted to address the crisis of 2010?

The new Nigerien authorities began alerting the international community to the seriousness of the situation in March. They organized sales of cereal at low prices and free food distributions. The response plan should also make it possible to treat more than 300,000 severely malnourished children in the country, which is four times more than in 2005.

In addition, we should emphasize that widespread preventive measures are also part of this approach, including the distribution of complementary foods intended for infants, who constitute the most vulnerable populations.

Is the response meeting the needs?

What we can say for sure is that the response is ambitious and will certainly make it possible to save many children. The response plan has evolved as the situation has changed. Unfortunately, it did not target immediately the areas most affected by childhood malnutrition but instead, gave priority to areas experiencing agricultural production deficits. Here again, the issue is emergency response, which requires considerable resources to treat children who are already severely malnourished. The malnutrition prevention measures that have been implemented are a good way to begin moving beyond this approach and to respond sooner.

It will be particularly important to make sure that these measures are maintained after the most difficult period winds up and that they are implemented systematically to prevent the recurrent peaks in severe malnutrition that we see every year, from June to October.

What role is MSF playing in this context?

MSF teams are working in the regions that have been the most seriously affected by the crisis: Tahoua, Maradi, Zinder and Agadez. We have strengthened our treatment programs to face the crisis and are now managing 8 nutritional hospitalization centers and approximately 60 outpatient centers, working in conjunction with the Nigerien Ministry of Health. Since January, we have treated approximately 65,000 children and expect to treat a total of 150,000 this year.

We are also organizing supplemental food distributions for children from six months up to two years, in the areas where we are working. This should allow us to reduce significantly the number of malnourished children during the second part of the season. We also hope to continue these distributions beyond the crisis period, to get ahead of the “hunger gap” of 2011.

MSF's French section has returned to Niger. What does that mean?

It signals the common willingness for both Nigerien authorities and MSF to resume our joint efforts to address the pediatric and nutritional problems in that country. To do that, we are working with a Nigerien medical NGO, Forsani. We had decided to support the organization after we left in late 2008. In 2009, more than 12,600 severely malnourished children were treated under the joint program in Madarounfa.

We hope to develop sustainable treatment and preventive programs by working with these young Nigerien doctors, health authorities and other aid actors.

--- Reprinted with permission  from the MSF website, July 30, 2010