I have faith. I think it’s a strong faith. But my faith has never really been tested. I may have thought it was, but three weeks in West Africa in a country still struggling to right itself after a brutal civil war has given me a new perspective.

In Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone, we made our way to the Peace Museum to educate ourselves about the bitter civil war that engulfed the country for 11 years.

As museums go, it doesn’t look like much. Had our KK driver not known where we were going, I doubt we’d have found it. It simply doesn’t look like any museum I’ve ever been to.

On the walls of the main reception hang posters designed by those who participated in the National Vision Project.

In the archive rooms, there are rows and rows of box files – the white ones are testimonies taken by the Special Court for Sierra Leone (SCSL), and the grey ones by the Truth and Reconciliation Council (TRC). The SCSL was set up by the government of Sierra Leone and the UN to ‘prosecute persons who bear the greatest responsibility for serious violations of international humanitarian law and Sierra Leonean law’.

After years of brutal conflict in Sierra Leone there existed a need to confront the past. The nation wanted to know what precipitated the wave of vengeance and mayhem that swept across the country.  How was it that the people of Sierra Leone came to turn on each other with such ferocity? Why did so many abandon traditions of community and peaceful co-existence? Why were long held and cherished customs and taboos so wantonly discarded? What needs to change? How will we effect the change?

The TRC was established to answer these questions.

We saw just one of the 8000 or so statements. It was a gruelling read. In it, a woman, born in 1952, spoke of how she was raped in 1996. Her story didn’t quite fill two pages.

We read quietly.

Together.

Neither finding anything to say.

Later in our travels, we would get to speak with another woman who had miraculously survived the war, but we didn’t know that yet.

It’s estimated that about 10,000 children, some as young as 5, became child soldiers, or sex slaves, or were forced into hard labour. The smallest of them were the most fearless with half of those under 13 drugged up to their eyeballs.

We saw the clothes they wore. Simple ronko shirts, cloth tunics from which hung cloth-covered boxes giving the wearer ‘supernatural powers against enemies and their weapons, including bullets’.

We read of Operation No Living Thing:

A deliberate and systematic campaign of killing, rape and mutilation – called by the AFRC and RUF “Operation no living thing” – has emerged since April 1998.

And Operation Pay Yourself:

Operation Pay Yourself included AFRC/RUF roadblocks where civilians were forced to place their belongings into two piles, one for civilians to keep, to “pay themselves,” and one to be handed over to the soldiers.

We read accounts written by amputees* and of the Amputee and War Wounded Association formed in 2002 to do something to cope with the aftermath of the war.

At the end of the war, Amputees and War wounded became a symbol of the civil conflict and has been added as a new category of persons with disabilities. Due to the intentional and dehumanizing nature surrounding our disabilities, the organization was named Amputees and War Wounded Association. This includes victims of sexual abuse, the wounded, war widows, and war orphans.

It was reading these accounts that my opinions of my faith were upended.

Victor Gbegba, a teacher, was about to be burned to death when he spoke to God:

Lord, if this is your will that I should die this way, then I commit my soul into your hands.

The fire went out. Twice. Then they slit his anus with a bayonet.

Tamba Mortatay Finnoh fell into an ambush when out looking for food in May of 1998. He and his fellow captives were lined up and one by one, their hands were chopped off. Tamba’s right hand was severed and his left partially so. He, too, spoke to God:

Father God, please do not let me die in this reckless situation. Save me and I will continue to serve you.

He managed to stand and walk for a while before collapsing again; this time, he thought it was the end. His conversation continued:

God, even if I cannot make it to my destination, please take me to where I can access help.

Salieu Sesay also had his hand chopped off in 1998. He was ‘fortunate’ in that his hand was chopped off cleanly on the first strike. He, too, speaks of his faith in God. He walked to help ‘with God’s grace’ and ‘God said my time was not yet over.’

There are more. Many more.

Walking around Freetown, you see amputees everywhere.

Not on the occasional corner.

Everywhere.

They can’t work without their hands or legs and yet they have families to feed. From what I understand, two lump-sum payments were made and nothing more. They need a regular monthly stipend. In its absence, they resort to begging.

It is heartbreaking.

We walked through the artefacts, unable to summon much interest in the weapons used and then came to a room with two display stands draped in blue cloth. Our guide told us they were gruesome crime scene photos and asked if we wanted to see them.

Want isn’t the word I’d have used.

No, I didn’t want to see them but yes, I felt compelled to pay witness.

We nodded.

He lifted the cloth and left us.

That was when the tears that had been threatening finally came.

But it wasn’t over.

We made our way out to the garden where the names of thousands are etched into the concrete walls.

We entered the garden and saw a sculpture in the far corner – a mother watching two rebels pulling her child between them.

And then the guide turned on the switch.

I took a photo – of course I did. But I’m not sharing it unless you never plan to visit Sierra Leone. It’s something you should see for yourself.

It’s right up there as possibly the most incredibly powerful piece of art I’ve ever seen.

There is no entrance fee but donations are accepted. Every Tuesday and Thursday schools visit to learn about what happened. The UN has a book I’d like to get my hands on – an account of the TRC and the war written for children. The museum is missing a trick by not having copies to sell.

But what the museum lacks in finesse it more than makes up for in heart.

I’m not quite sure what I’m grateful for.

For the chance to skim the surface and learn more about what was a terrible war?
For the opportunity to put names and faces to horrific testimonies?
For the reminder that things anywhere could turn on a sixpence?
For the self-reflection that inevitably followed?

I’m not sure.

To see the strength of people’s belief in God (their God, my God, any god) was moving. Very moving. And for that, I’m truly grateful.

And if you’re about to ask the question – if there really is a God, how could have let this war happen – let me direct you to where I plan to go: Thomas Jay Oords’s book, God Can’t. I’ll let you know how I get on.

*I have photos I took of their accounts – if you’re interested, I can send them to you.