Bangui — It is early August, and the humanitarian aid community in the Central African Republic’s capital Bangui is fearing the worst. The Ebola outbreak in neighbouring Democratic Republic of Congo is intensifying and there is a chance the epidemic may jump the border into a remote area of the eastern CAR. The area is under the control of armed groups.
One Thursday morning, some jumbled information from there reaches the capital. There are people bleeding. Haemorrhaging. It might be Ebola.
The information needs to be verified. Is it true? And if so, is it Ebola?
As in most of the rest of the country, there is no government presence in the CAR’s far east. Periodic violence means there are no international organisations either. There is no health system, no reliable communications network, no way to know whether the information was accurate without despatching a helicopter, loaded with heavily armed peacekeepers, at much expense and great risk.
Actually, there is one other option. It’s time to send in the boy scouts.
These days, five years into the civil war, calling the CAR a country is a bit of a stretch. There is a flag, sure, and a national anthem and borders, but what happens inside those borders is not regulated by anything resembling a traditional state.
The government, propped up in Bangui by a phalanx of United Nations peacekeepers, controls only small patches of territory around the capital and to the west. The rest of the country is divided between more than a dozen armed groups, whose identities, allegiances and territories are constantly shifting — so much so that, by the time peace talks are organised, some of the groups represented no longer exist and new ones have emerged that are not represented.
Sometimes it seems as if the armed groups themselves are not entirely sure what they are fighting about. Often the violence is cloaked in the language of religion — the good Christian soldiers waging war against the terrorists, or the persecuted Muslims protecting their ravaged minority — but more often than not the fighting is about the control of increasingly scant resources, such as food and cattle.
Bangui itself is full of men in uniform. Peacekeepers in their distinctive light-blue helmets, soldiers in threadbare fatigues and red berets, the navy-clad gendarmerie. The rebels in the city, holed up mostly in the Muslim quarter, tend to keep a lower profile.
Also in uniform are members of the various branches of the Central African Boy Scouts movement. They look familiar, with their short-sleeve khaki shirts and shorts, long socks and neatly tied neckerchiefs, and can often be spotted strolling in small groups along the capital’s leafy streets. Look carefully and you can see the merit badges on their sleeves: for woodwork, for cooking, for navigating.
There are a lot of scouts in the CAR — about 20 000, according to scout leaders, but the conflict makes it difficult to be precise about this or any other statistic (by contrast, there are 14 787 UN peacekeepers).
The scouts are represented in all 16 provinces and in almost every church diocese. This makes the scout movement larger in both size and national footprint than any single armed group. Because of its rigid hierarchical structure, it has survived the onslaught of the civil war and is one of only a handful of national institutions — the Catholic Church is another — about which it is reasonable to assume that a decision made in Bangui can be implemented elsewhere in the country. The same cannot be said for any government ministry.
The resilience of the country’s scouts may be traced back to the movement’s long — albeit controversial — history in the region. After Sir Robert Baden-Powell founded the movement in 1908, imperial powers were quick to appreciate how influential it could be as a mechanism of control in their colonial outposts. Central Africa was a testing ground.
According to historian Timothy Parsons: “In the 1920s, Baptist missionaries at Yakusu in the Belgian Congo tried to substitute scouting for secret male initiation ceremonies, which they considered morally unacceptable, while Roman Catholic missionary educators sought to use the movement to train ‘Christian knights’, who would assist them in converting the wider African population in the colony. Across the Congo River in Brazzaville, French authorities similarly expected scouting to train a moral African elite that would exert a positive influence on the rest of colonial society.”
Since the independence era, however, the scout movement in the region has evolved into something more reflective of local values. This is especially true in the CAR.
“At the national level we have contributed to the development of our country. We are warriors of peace,” says Rony Yannick Bengai, the secretary general of the Catholic Scouts Association, by far the largest of the various scout groups. Like so much else here, the movement is divided along religious lines: there are also the Evangelical Scouts, known as Les Flambeaux, and a dwindling group of Muslim Scouts.
Bengai became a scout at the age of seven and has been involved with the scouts in some form or another for 22 years. He’s now 29. For him it has been a lifeline.
“Scouts taught me how to live in a community, to develop moral, intellectual and physical capacity,” he says.
Crucially, it kept him off the streets, out of the clutches of the armed groups and the drug dealers who prey on the CAR’s large numbers of boys and young men, most of whom are jobless and unskilled. They have few other options.
Bengai, on the other hand, stands tall. Being a scout has given him a place in society, a duty to discharge, and it is one that he takes seriously. “We are here to mediate between the belligerents, to make our country liveable, to stop the violence.”
He and his peers rattle off a list of accomplishments that makes it clear that the scout movement in this country is not just a recreational activity.
Some representative examples: when UNICEF, the UN Children’s Fund, wanted to roll out a nationwide vaccination programme, it was the boy scouts who knocked on village doors to tell sceptical citizens that the doctors were coming and that they could be trusted. When nervous villagers need to go to hospital in a distant town, they can request a scout to accompany them along unfamiliar roads and territory. When a Muslim community was trapped in the forest near Boda, in 2017, it was the scouts who mediated with the armed groups holding them hostage to secure their release. When the Pope came to visit in 2015, it was the scouts who managed the delirious crowds that lined his route from the airport.
And, this year, when humanitarian aid workers received those jumbled reports about a potential Ebola outbreak in a remote, treacherous part of the country, it was the scouts who were consulted as the first line of inquiry. Scouts were already there, of course. Fortunately for all concerned, there was no sign of the deadly virus.
Abdelwadid Gakara, a leader in the Muslim Scouts Association, invokes Baden-Powell’s famous maxim to explain the outsized contribution of the CAR’s scout movement. “Our saying is: Toujours Prêt! [Be prepared!]. Anything can happen.”
He adds: “Everything we do is to transmit the message of peace. A good scout is someone who is on good terms with everyone.”
If only it were that simple.
Ngoaporo Ghislain-Oxwold (17) - he’s the one hanging up his laundry in the photograph above - and Boy-Fini Mikael (18) are friends. At first they were not sure about this scouts business — it looked like hard work and not especially cool. But slowly they came around as more and more of their friends joined, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.
"We used to stay in the neighbourhood and do nothing. Then our friends who were scouts were going every Saturday. They said it was really interesting, really fun. They did activities. Singing, dancing. Sometimes there were shows,” says Ghislain-Oxwold, speaking in the rain falling outside the Bangui basketball stadium, where his troop is involved in a talent show designed to showcase the best of the city’s singing and dancing.
Ghislain-Oxwold, a student at Bangui’s only functional university, found that his academic career turned around after he became a scout. “Since I became a new member, I saw the blessing of God. It’s thanks to the grace of the scouts that I passed my last exam.”
In the scout movement’s rigid, pseudo-military hierarchy, the pair of friends are “explorers”, the entry-level rank, but have set their sights on moving up the ladder soon. They have already attended the mandatory two-week initiation camp, at which they learned basic survival skills, such as how to find shelter and start a fire.
They are also taught several skills traditionally considered to be “girls’ work”: laundry, washing up and cooking. Judging by Ghislain-Oxwold’s familiarity with the clothesline, it seems to be working.
Not all their friends are scouts. Others have joined armed groups — and the attraction is much the same. Like scouts, armed groups provide a powerful sense of purpose and belonging. Even their training camps are not dissimilar in terms of the type of skills taught to new recruits. With one major exception: the scouts don’t teach their members how to handle weapons.
For all its militaristic trappings, the scout movement both in the CAR and around the world is explicitly pacifist — a legacy of the disgust Baden-Powell felt towards the atrocities committed during World War I.
In the context of a civil war, however, preaching pacifism can be a revolutionary act — and it’s not always popular.
Ali Ousman is the co-ordinator of Bangui’s main Muslim civil society coalition. He lives, as all the Muslims in the city do, in an area called Point Kilometre Cinq, or PK5, so named because it is exactly 5km from the city centre. Most of the country’s Muslim population has been squeezed into the boundaries of what is effectively a ghetto.
PK5 is a dangerous place. Several armed groups operate inside it, and there are periodic clashes between them and the supposedly Christian militias. UN peacekeepers warily watch the roads leading in and out, but rarely dare to venture in. Most PK5 residents believe that the only reason the Muslim population has not already been wiped out is because they are protected by armed groups.
The numbers are not on the Muslim community’s side, says Ousman, who is seated in a plastic chair outside his office on one of the neighbourhood’s main thoroughfares. “If we don’t defend ourselves, we will be eliminated. They are a majority. They have more weapons than we do.”
Since the beginning of the civil war, thousands of Muslims have been killed, many in targeted killings. Many more have fled to neighbouring countries.
From Ousman’s perspective, the boys who join the local armed groups are the real heroes. “Some youth are taking guns to defend PK5, the only place where Muslims are allowed to live in Bangui. The reason that pushed them to take weapons has not changed. If they didn’t, they would be killed, their parents would be killed, the old people would be killed. They had no choice.”
In contrast, the boy scouts, in their faintly ridiculous shorts and long socks, are choosing not to defend their community. “In reality, the Muslim Scouts don’t do anything.” Ousman doesn’t use the word coward, but he doesn’t have to. He’s made his point.
Several years ago, the boy scouts of the CAR were suspended from the World Organisation of the Scout Movement. They had not paid their fees. Negotiations are ongoing to rejoin the global body, which has been mightily impressed by the efforts of their Central African chapter.
There are obstacles to overcome before CAR’s scouts are returned to the fold. The fees are still a problem. So too is the fractured nature of the CAR’s scout movement: the Catholic Scouts, the Muslim Scouts and Les Flambeaux should fall under a single umbrella. More serious still is that the scout movement in the CAR has, until recently, treated scouting as a boys-only endeavour. To participate internationally, the CAR needs girl scouts too.
“We are trying to tell people our movement is not for boys only,” says Bengai.
He doesn’t sound all that convinced himself. Nonetheless, a girl scout troop has been founded in Bangui, and about 50 young women have joined. Many of them are performing in the talent show.
This is a welcome development, given that girls in Bangui — and even more so in the rest of the country — have fewer options for both employment and recreation.
“Young girls don’t have the options that boys do,” says Mounira Aliman, a young woman who represents the Islamic Youth Centre. “Especially for Muslim girls, we can’t really leave our neighbourhood. It’s very important if they could include girl members in Scouts. Seeing all the girls today [at the talent show] is a sign of hope.”
Rejoining World Scouts would be an affirmation of the pivotal role the scouts have played in the CAR, and would allow the movement to get more funding and partnerships to increase the scale of its work. An argument could be made that the scouts should be receiving more funding anyway, given how valuable their work continues to be.
To really understand that value — and despite what critics like Ousman might say — imagine if the scout movement did not exist in the CAR. Imagine that those 20 000 boys were not going on camps and earning merit badges and telling remote villages about vaccination drives. What would they be doing? What groups would they join instead?
Imagine that those boys were wearing different uniforms, ones that came with guns and struck fear into the hearts of people.
Bengai puts it best. “The armed groups do war. The scouts are an army for peace,” he says.
In the context of the CAR’s collapsed state and ongoing civil war, the scouts might just be the most effective army of them all.
— Words by Simon Allison, with additional reporting from Amy Niang, Will Baxter and Moussa Abdoulaye
Reporting from the Central African Republic is never easy. In this audio feature, authors Simon Allison, Amy Niang, Moussa Abdoulaye and Will Baxter discuss why it’s so tough to work in a ‘failed state’ (more on what that term actually means below) and why it’s so hard to find your way around the country - in the most literal possible sense.
If there was a functioning state in the Central African Republic, there would be no need for the Boy Scouts to play such a significant role. But before we can fix the failed state, we need to understand how and why it has failed.
Bangui — The Central African Republic (CAR) carries all the myths and markers of a failed state. Central authority has disintegrated. Competing armed groups have usurped state prerogatives in two-thirds of the country.
Law and order has almost disappeared and impunity prevails. Armed mutinies and factional violence have become endemic, and political governance is outsourced.
What is left of the state is a compartmentalised, highly fragmented system unevenly run with the support, and sometimes the supervision, of the United Nations and humanitarian agencies. For the CAR, this is likely to be the new normal.
In its 68 years of political independence from France, the CAR has enjoyed only short spells of political calm. More than half-a-dozen coups and countercoups, some botched, others enduring, have installed a situation of stable crisis. Most recently, in 2013, Séléka rebels instigated a coup against François Bozizé’s government, plunging the country into another period of sustained instability and precarious living from which it has yet to recover.
The leadership of the Séléka was predominantly Muslim, and resentment against them, in many cases, has been extended to all in the Muslim minority. Previously, Muslims and Christians had lived together in relative harmony, but now many Muslims have fled the country, and the ones who remain mostly live in segregated zones.
It would take a French-Chadian intervention to restore a modicum of calm before elections could be organised in 2016. But the government that was voted in is largely unable to exercise its sovereignty, leaving the country in a condition of de facto deregulated political governance through conflict.
In other words, the country’s people are left with no choice but to fend for themselves.
The neighbourhood of PK5 in the capital, Bangui, is an example of a how people can organise themselves in the context of an absentee state, in ways both positive and negative. The neighbourhood is host to at least four armed groups, but also to dynamic social initiatives that are supplying the kind of services usually provided by the state.
According to Ali Ousman, the co-ordinator of a Muslim civil society coalition, the 2013 crisis precipitated a new entrepreneurial spirit in his community, emerging from the necessity to self-organise.
“The crisis has been a trigger for the youth, who are both actors and victims,” says Ousman.
Outside his office in PK5, young men are offloading the few trucks that are still able to carry merchandise into the neighbourhood.
Similar scenes — of people making do and doing what they can to look after themselves — are repeated across the country, in territory nominally controlled by government and armed groups alike.
Thus, on the surface, the CAR is the quintessential example of the failed state. But this categorisation does not tell the whole story, and can lead to simplistic analyses. There is nothing inherently deterministic, natural or inevitable about this situation.
The country’s political instability is not the result of an inexorable process of degradation, isolated from specific historical conditions. The current situation — of independence without decolonisation, sovereignty without ownership and nationhood without a common project — is the outcome of a conjunction of historically specific problems and haphazard responses.
Categorical representations are never innocent: they not only generate discursive registers and they can legitimise intervention in the form of intrusive policy treatments. For the failed state construct only tells us what is wrong, not how it is wrong, or, for that matter, for whom the state is failing.
So what exactly does the CAR’s state failure look like? This question implies that there was a recognisable state in the first place. But from a historical perspective, the CAR was never that. It went from a harsh colonial system of blatant exploitation to a postcolonial regime that systematised political exclusion and material deprivation. In fact, the very process of state building was aborted before it was allowed to begin.
To this can be added decades of failed structural adjustment policies, the illegal extraction of the CAR’s rare minerals and the continued effects of the infamous (post)colonial pact that kept the country subordinated in the sphere of influence of its former coloniser, France.
France’s role in precipitating state collapse is especially relevant. In 1979, French paratroopers enforced Operation Barracuda to depose Jean-Bédel Bokassa to reinstall David Dacko, who had been ousted by the former in a 1966 coup.
Bokassa reigned over the CAR because he was able to loot the country’s resources and use the proceeds to buy support. As long as Bokassa supplied uranium to France, diamonds to then French president Giscard d’Estaing, and remained the goofy, almost caricatured president who safeguarded France’s interests, the latter provided full support to his repressive government.
Against this backdrop, it is no coincidence that France played a major role in the recent crisis with Operation Sangaris, a military intervention designed to stabilise the country that ran from 2013 to 2016, Sangaris was France’s seventh intervention in CAR since 1960.
But on the streets of Bangui today, it is another international force that is most prominent: the blue-helmeted peacekeepers of the United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilisation Mission in the CAR (Minusca).
Visitors may be forgiven for thinking that the UN has taken over the CAR. It is almost impossible to stand at a major thoroughfare for five minutes without seeing armoured vehicles bearing the logo of the UN or some other humanitarian agency.
It raises the question: Who is really in control? Is the country better understood as being governed by a form of “multilateral trusteeship”, in which the international community calls the shots?
Modibo Walidou, a law professor, former Cabinet minister and current vice-president of the central mosque of Bangui, has considered this question.
“I wouldn’t say so. It is true that there is something about our present predicament that may make you think that we are under trusteeship”, says Walidou. “Our army is Minusca, our diplomacy is France and Minusca, and our finances, well, it is Minusca that pays the salaries. However, things are more complicated than that.”
Anne-Marie Goumba, a member of Parliament, a judge and a civil society leader, takes a different approach: “A country without an armed force is not a country,” she says. “A country whose security is provided by foreigners is not a country.”
Foreigners are not just providing security. International peacekeepers have been accompanied by an enormous contingent of aid workers and development professionals, there to deliver the intensive care needed to keep the idea of the state alive.
Humanitarianism thus becomes the first layer of a stabilisation course that relies on beefing up the repressive capacity of the security apparatus and a disarmament and demobilisation process, followed by the ritual of elections for a return to “normality”. This is the typical application of the liberal peace package. The blueprint for that is an old idea, according to which conflict prevails when state institutions have collapsed, and they therefore need to be restored.
But humanitarianism, by definition, is only an emergency response. Humanitarian agencies respond to crises and their outlook is short-term. The extent of their care is constrained by the benevolence of fickle donors whose priorities change according to perceptions of urgency, national interest, the geopolitics of resources and political influence.
The humanitarian impulse is no answer to structural problems.
Joseph Inganji, the country director of the UN’s Office for the Co-ordination of Humanitarian Affairs, understands this all too well. “Humanitarian assistance is not a solution to the humanitarian needs of the CAR,” he said.
Despite having been repeatedly failed by their state, many in the CAR yearn for its return. But the state they have in mind is not necessarily the state that the international community — relying on its one-size-fits-all prescriptions — is trying to create.
For populations torn across religious, ethnic, regional and political lines, the state that must be built is one that is able to sustain the terms that structure social relations, the capacity for people to articulate autonomous subjectivities and a culture of good neighbourliness and solidarity.
It is not enough to simply write off the CAR as a “failed state”. Until we understand the specificities of how it has failed, and why it has failed, no one can begin to fix it.
- Words by Amy Niang