A Lesson from Freetown; A Reflection for Liberia
By Danicius Kaihenneh Sengbeh
Abstract
In this reflective account, I share my experience from a week in Freetown, Sierra Leone, where the city’s vibrant life, stunning coastlines, and resilient people revealed more than what the eyes meet. Beyond the surface joys, I confronted the haunting shadows of Sierra Leone’s brutal 11-year civil war through a sobering visit to the Peace Museum—built on the former site of the Special Court for Sierra Leone. There, I walked among archives, artifacts, and engraved names of victims that brought history’s cruelty painfully close. It reminded me of Liberia’s scars of its civil wars and how, unlike Sierra Leone and Rwanda, we have yet to build a permanent space to preserve our story, honor our victims, and warn future generations. My journey became not just a personal exploration of Freetown, but a petition back home. In this piece, I call to my homeland Liberia, to find the courage to memorialize its brutal past. My call is masked in the fact that if we bury our pain in silence, the lessons of history may fade, and silence can be more dangerous than memory.
Beyond the Obvious in Freetown
In Sierra Leone, my weeklong experience went far beyond the obvious. It wasn’t just about venturing 15 miles from the 233- year-old hilly peninsula city of Freetown to Stokeh Beach, where I joined fishermen hauling nets brimming with fish from the calmer stretch of the Atlantic Ocean—and celebrating their success. Nor was it merely about sitting in cozy, rectangular conference halls, absorbing weighty discourses from experts on taxation and domestic resource mobilization in West Africa, interpolated by sumptuous lunches and appetizing tea breaks. Was it about the farewell dinner at the hilltop Hotel Bintumani? No!
And it certainly wasn’t limited to dawdling on the country’s stunning beaches, a chilled bottle of Maltina in my hand, while keenly observing—like an eagle—how the rhythms of social interactions unfolded around me. Mind you, you don’t even want to ask me about the nightlife in Freetown. I only heard that in passing.
Encounters in the City
Oh, I would stumble upon a street-side Freetown Barack Obama on a Sunday morning, a savior in disguise, appearing just when Google Maps had betrayed me. And I would find time for a Saturday walk through a modest street roundabout park, planted within that rugged peninsula city, where houses cling stubbornly to the slopes, nestled among steep hills and valleys that lean toward the restless embrace of the Atlantic Ocean.
I would behold the snaking streets alive with bustle: people chasing survival, for that is life itself. ‘Yannah’ boys and petty traders weave into the city’s rhythm, selling fruits, roasted cassava, golden plantains, corn, apples, and cucumbers—each adding their small piece to the greater economy. Just like in Monrovia—or even in the United States or Sweden—there are beggars, perhaps not homeless, stretching out hands for alms. Then there are the car washers, relentless and determined, who will scrub your windshield even if you protest. They have a mission. They must live by or on something—reminding that even in Freetown, not everything is free.
Shadows of a Brutal Past
Yet beneath the city’s bustle and small joys, I realized, lies a shadow that cannot be ignored or easily erased. Freetown’s streets, full of laughter, trade, and survival, are also haunted by reminders of a brutal civil war that reshaped a whole generation. The people’s resilience is evident, but so are the scars. Among them, too, are the disadvantaged youth (‘Street Youth’)—like the ones we so-call “zogos” in Monrovia. The locals caution you about them, reminding you that they are scars left behind by war, a generation both feared and pitied. Yes, the war!
Two Nations, One Painful Mirror
In Sierra Leone, we know that an 11-year civil war (March 1991–January 2002) claimed at least 50,000 lives and affected some 2 million people. The conflict officially ended after peace agreements and UN-led disarmament, and the Special Court for Sierra Leone later prosecuted key figures—including our former Liberian President Charles Ghankay Taylor, now jailed in The Hague—cementing the principle that warlords and leaders can be held accountable.
Meanwhile, Liberia endured back-to-back brutal civil wars (1989–1997 and 1999–2003), together lasting 14 years, claiming at least a quarter of a million lives, displacing more than a million people, and forcing hundreds of thousands into exile. Both wars shared the same magnitude of atrocities, with fighters, weapons, mayhem, and chaos becoming common and cheap cross-border commodities.
In these wars, people were bombed, maimed, and slaughtered. Their bodies desecrated in acts of barbarity torn from the pages of a nightmare. Innocent youth, including some of my best childhood friends, stripped of childhood, were drugged and turned into soldiers of death, commanded to kill, rape, and destroy anything or anyone in their path.
To them, everything became an enemy, except themselves. Many fought across borders, spilling blood not only in Liberia and Sierra Leone but in Guinea and Côte d’Ivoire as well, carrying with them the scars of a war without boundaries. The scenes remain unbearable to recall—not only because they dragged both nations three decades backward, but because they poisoned a generation, teaching them to see fellow human beings as prey.
Those of us who were children when it began, who lived through its terror and somehow survived, carry an unshakable truth in our blood and bones: we will never wish for a replay. No—never.
Inside Sierra Leone’s Peace Museum
And that is exactly what Sierra Leone has done. On Friday, September 19, 2025, as part of a city tour, we arrived at the solemn grounds of the Peace Museum situated on Jomo Kenyatta Road, mNew England Ville, Freetown. It’s on the site of the former Special Court for Sierra Leone.
The Sierra Leone Peace Museum stands as a legacy of the Special Court and Residual Special Court for Sierra Leone, serving as both a memorial and educational space. It is preserving the memory of the civil war while promoting justice, reconciliation, and lasting peace, we were told. There, outreach focal person Patrick Fatoma and outreach officer Sulaiman Jabati became our guides, walking us through Sierra Leone’s painful journey: from the roots of tribalism, corruption, and marginalization, to the boiling point that erupted into war in the 1990s.
We first watched a documentary—its graphic images a chilling reminder of the cruelty humans can inflict upon one another. But it was the walk through what I would rather call the “war museum” that truly pierced the heart. I couldn’t hold the tears under my glasses.
The Weight of Memory
There we stood before artifacts and faded images of atrocities, photographs and profiles of the men who unleashed terror, and displays capturing the devastation of entire communities. Hundreds of boxes fill the archive rooms, holding transcripts, TRC statements, and witness testimonies—including those from the trial of former Liberian President Charles Taylor—preserved as a permanent record for generations. Portraits of rebel leaders, the warring factions, and the charms they trusted to shield them in battle line the walls, each frame whispering its own haunting story.
One of the places that struck me most at the Peace Museum was the Memorial Garden. Walking through, I was surrounded by symbols that quietly carried the weight of Sierra Leone’s history—the Peace Pole rising as a sign of unity, and the tomb-like structures for each district, each one a silent marker of grief. On the outer wall of the garden, I saw engraved names of the war’s countless victims, arranged alphabetically and by districts. Each name representing a life, a family, a story cut short. It was impossible not to pause and reflect. The atmosphere demanded it. I did.
As I made my way to the far end of the garden, I encountered the Peace Bridge. At first glance, it looked like just another crossing, but the meaning behind it was profound. To step onto the bridge was to symbolically retrace the country’s own journey, leaving behind years of violence and moving forward toward healing and reconciliation. Each step across felt heavy, as though I was carrying echoes of Sierra Leone’s past with me, but lighter on the other side, where hope seemed to wait.
Then my eyes met the bold words carved into a large plaque: “Di War Don Done.” Reading those words in Krio—the war is over—I felt a wave of emotion. It was more than an inscription; it was a declaration, a reminder, and a promise all at once. In that moment, I could sense the resilience of Sierra Leone, a people who had crossed their own bridge and were determined never to return to the horrors they had endured.
The tour of the Peace Museum closes on a note that is at once emotional and resolute. Visitors often pause at “Di War Don Done” plaque for photographs, but it is more than a photo spot—it is a place of reflection, a reminder, a vow. The message is clear: Never again. Let us argue, let us disagree, but never again should we take up arms, mutilate bodies, destroy lives, and ruin our nation.
Sierra Leone has written its war story in both words and actions—through documents, spaces, and visible memory. It is not just told; it is shown, lived, and remembered. The evidence is there, painfully real, for all to see and for none to forget.
The Silence in Liberia In that space,
I turned to my boss, Commissioner General of the Liberia Revenue Authority, James Dorbor Jallah, who has his own horrific story and experiences of the Liberian Civil War. I could see the reflection in his eyes. They were redder than usual. “CG, we have not done this in Liberia – it’s a powerful story with a strong lesson.” He responded somberly, “Yes, we haven’t, but it’s not late, and it’s not impossible.” He added, “The atrocities and stories of the war here are the same back home. That’s what the fighters did…”
I couldn’t agree more with Mr. Jallah, who shared with me a piece of his chilling war victim story. In Liberia, we have not yet seized that chance to tell our own war story. And if we don’t, our scars — and the hard lessons they carry — may fade into silence. Silence, am aware, can be more dangerous than memory.
Rwanda’s Unflinching Reminder
I was reminded of this truth when I traveled to Rwanda in 2019. There, I visited Gisozi, just outside central Kigali, where the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre stands. Unlike Liberia, Rwanda did not allow its wounds to be buried in whispers. My visit was not merely to hear stories from the guide, but to see, sense, and almost feel the scars of war and genocide etched into their memorial.
Rwanda’s story still chills me. What started as a civil war in 1990 exploded into the horror of 1994, when in just 100 days nearly a million people, mostly Tutsi and moderate Hutu, were wiped out. In one hundred days, an entire nation scarred in the blink of history.
Rwanda built its memorial as a living testimony. The images, the artifacts, even the silence — they don’t just speak to Rwandans, they speak to the world. They whisper and they warn: never again should humanity walk that road.
Liberia’s Call to Action
As we reflect on our past, we must commit to recording our history so future generations may know it, and never repeat it. Liberia must rise to tell its story—not in fragments, not in whispers, but in one strong voice that declares: ‘De War Na Finish.’ And with that declaration must come a vow: never again.
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