War Wounds

By Malcolm Linton; Issatu Kargbo; Abdul Sankoh

Sierra Leone's eight-year civil war has settled into an uneasy peace. But it has left a cruel legacy. At the height of the country's chaos this spring, rebel soldiers intensified an ugly ritual of amputations, seizing civilians and chopping off limbs. Human-rights groups estimate that thousands have been maimed in this fashion. Two of them told their stories to TIME's Malcolm Linton.

Issatu Kargbo is 13, one of seven children of farmer Alimany Kargbo, who moved last year to Samuel Town village, about 20 miles southeast of Freetown, because of fighting in his home area. The family lives in a shack in the garden of an abandoned house. Last Jan. 13, Issatu was staying with her aunt on the edge of Freetown, waiting to go for a medical checkup, when rebels overran her neighborhood:

It was a Wednesday--a very nice day with the sun shining. The rebels came to the house at around 4 in the afternoon. There were two: a man about the same age as my father and a child soldier carrying an ax. They weren't armed, apart from the ax, and they were in ordinary clothes. There were about 15 of us. The man picked out six and took us to the rebels' base at Black Tank. I was frightened because I didn't know what was going to happen.

At Black Tank the man called four other rebels to guard us. A lot of rebels were hiding in the bushes and around the houses. They had a big fire going near the verandah of the house. They ambushed the people who came past and pushed them into the fire, pointing their guns. They made them lie down in the fire. I saw it happen to five people. Three of them died in the fire, and two managed to get up and walk away, but they were badly burned, so maybe they died later--I don't know.

The children with me were crying. I was more frightened than before because I thought they were going to throw me into the fire. The rebels were laughing and making jokes, except for the man who had picked us out. His face was bad, so dark it was blue--you couldn't see any sign of laughter in it. He cut us with the ax one by one. I was number five. The adults were begging, and the children were crying. They put my hands on the ground and cut them off quickly, the left first. I didn't feel anything, or just something like a sting. Everything went dark, and I fell over on the ground. After a while I got up and walked a little way, but then I blacked out again and fell over. I don't know what happened to the other people. I had no idea why they did that to me.

It all took less than half an hour.

I walked back to the house. My aunt saw me and started to cry, but one of the rebels told her he would shoot her if she cried. That night I slept in an abandoned house, and the next day I went down to the main road. A rebel saw me waiting there and took me to the Summer Time clinic [a small clinic with a nurse but no doctor]. He gave me a bowl of rice. Then the other rebels came and took away the rice. They said they would kill anyone who said a word about what had happened. I was in the clinic for a few days. Then the Red Cross came and took me to hospital.

I want to go back to school. I haven't been back since this happened. How can I write? I can't do anything except eat and drink water from a cup. Sometimes I follow my father into the forest when he cuts wood to sell in the truck park. I used to wash my clothes and cook. But now I can't do those things. I play with my younger sisters, chasing them and wrestling. I still do that.

I have friends here. They don't make jokes about my arms. They feel very sorry for me. Most of my friends are in Freetown. I want to go back there and see my aunt--just to visit, not to stay. There's no one at her house to take care of me.

[Issatu's father is humble, polite and upset. "Any time she goes somewhere with us, I want to cry because they have destroyed her looks," he says. Issatu went to Handicap International's clinic in Freetown and got a leather strap to help her hold a spoon on the end of her right arm. She smiles as she shows it off. "Before, I used to eat by holding the spoon between my arms," she says.]

Abdul Sankoh, 27, was a teacher until last December, when fighting between government and rebel forces closed his school. Now he is jobless and lives at the Murray Town amputee center in Freetown. On the morning of April 30, after hiding from the fighting for three days in the bush without food, he and another man went back to their village to look for mangoes to take to their friends:

We got the mangoes and were on our way back to the bush when we met two rebels. They stopped us at gunpoint. They told us to drop the mangoes, and they tied us up.

They brought us back to the village where more rebels--I counted 36--were holding five others: two women, two children and an old man. All of the rebels were carrying AK-47s, and some had rocket-propelled grenades. They were mostly about 35 or 40, but some were in their 20s. They looked untidy, as if they had been in the bush for a long time.

They killed the five other people they were holding one by one. The people were shouting and crying. I was sitting a few yards away, tied up back to back with my friend. There were about seven soldiers doing the killing. The others were searching the houses. I thought they were going to kill me too.

When they had finished killing the other five, they started arguing. Some wanted to kill us, but others said we should carry rice for them. My friend was a farmer, and I told them I was too. I said that because at that time, the rebels were searching for teachers and police. Then someone came up and said he knew me, although I didn't know him. I thought he might save me, but he turned out to be the one who destroyed me. He said, "I know you. You're a teacher, and you have a friend who is a policeman." They asked me where he was, and when I said I didn't know, they told me they were going to kill me. One of them was instructed to kill me, but he refused. He said he had never killed anyone. They pulled the gun from his hands and started to flog him. Then one of them said he was going to amputate my arms. I begged him not to and offered to join their group, but he refused. He called for an ax.

They pushed my right hand onto the ground. I was shouting and begging them. I watched when they cut it off. I was looking at the stump, watching the way the veins vibrated when the blood flowed out. It was very painful, and I was shouting. When they grabbed my other hand, I blacked out, so I didn't feel them cut it off. After they'd cut off both my hands, I told them, "Kill me, because I am no use in the world!" They told me I was making a noise, and they said it was because I had a mouth to talk with. And they cut off my lips. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I could feel my lips hanging down.

Later that same day, I walked from my village--about three miles' walk--to one of the peacekeepers' bases. Then they took me to the hospital about three days later. A German Doctors Without Borders doctor did the operation on my arms at Connaught Hospital in Freetown. After the operation, I slept for two days. I couldn't speak because of my mouth--I was just looking around. They were feeding me from a drip. It was a week before I could eat or drink. After three weeks, my wife came to the hospital to find me.

The most difficult things to do now? The most important thing is the toilet affairs. I can't do it for myself, and my wife has to help me. It's embarrassing. Another thing is bathing...eating...writing. I can urinate for myself now with no escort. I can't dress myself. I can't pray because I can't wash. I pray only at night when I'm going to sleep.

I ask for forgiveness when I pray. Then I ask for someone to help me get through my future life... It could be my wife, but without money, she will just sit there beside me. With no money for our children or to assist our parents, she'll just sit there with me. Now I'm waiting to get false hands. It's up to the government. If I don't get them, I can't do anything. If the government forgets about us, we'll take revenge. I can't do it myself, but I would tell my family to take revenge on the person who did this to me. We have no guns, but we have the traditional ways of revenging. I am left-handed, and it will be enough if they can just give me a prosthesis for my left arm.

The International Rescue Committee is working with Sierra Leone's victims. It is accepting contributions at 122 East 42nd Street, New York, N.Y. 10168