By Alfred Koroma
Mariama Mary Kamara, a lactating mother begs for a living
“It feels disgusting seeing myself this way,” says Catco Sesay, 34, staring at what remains of his right arm.
“I should have been better than this if I were a normal human, but I was deprived,” he added, with his face tense, his eyes wet as he struggles to hold back tears.
Catco lost his right arm at the age of six in Old Port Loko, a village along the Freetown Road in Port Loko District, during the eleven-year civil war, a conflict that claimed over 50,000 lives and displaced thousands more.
“It happened around midnight,” he recalls, recounting what his elder brother told him. “Our house was the first the rebels reached in the village. Realizing the rebels were around, my brother tried to escape with me through the back door. He was shot, and the bullet hit my hand. I didn’t get medical attention early enough, so my hand went bad, and they had to cut it off.”
Catco is not the only victim of this devastating experience. According to a report by The New Yorker , an estimated two to four thousand people suffered amputations during the conflict, with countless others enduring various forms of mutilation.
Like Catco, many of the amputees who spoke to Concord Times were young and innocent when they were maimed in the war.
Mariama Mary Kamara, now a lactating mother, was three when rebels attacked their home in Kono. Her mother ran away while her father carried Mariama on his shoulder, trying to escape. He was shot dead, and the bullet hit Mariama’s leg, which was later amputated.
Elizabeth Kargbo was five when her right hand was amputated. “I knew nothing,” she said. “Mum told me she still has the cloth she used to tie my arm after it was chopped off, hoping there would be a way to fix it.”
“According to Mum, people were lined up. Mothers with children were forced to give up their children before being taken into a room. After chopping off the children’s hands, the rebels would call the mothers to collect them,” Elizabeth explained. “My mum doesn’t like talking about it.”
Now an adult, Elizabeth says she feels pain every time she dresses to go out, knowing she can’t wear certain clothes, like long sleeves, that she desires.
“It’s really painful. A grown woman like me, and I can’t wear the dresses I want,” she said.
“I’m paying for what my father knew nothing about,” she added – a statement she repeated throughout my 16-minute interview with her. Her face made it clear she is not a happy woman.
Beggars, teachers without pay
The amputees’ pain isn’t just from the memory of the war, it’s from feeling abandoned and forgotten by society. After surviving the war’s horrors, many now survive through begging, fighting for recognition and dignity. Support has faded, and their suffering persists.
Volume Two, Chapter Three of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) report gave comprehensive recommendations to address the challenges faced by those war amputees, focusing on health, financial support, education, and skills development for reintegration and improved quality of life. But these recommendations have either not been fully implemented or have had little impact.
Presently many of the amputees said they struggle to afford basic necessities like food and medical care. Some have resorted to begging or relying on relatives to survive. Others have dropped out of school due to lack of support.
Mariama said she sat for WASSCE in 2021 and met university requirements, but couldn’t further her education due to lack of support.
“The man I gave birth for is also disabled. We beg to eat each day,” she said. “I don’t feel happy about that, but there’s no other way.”
Others like Elizabeth and Catco managed to get a college education and became teachers. Both hold a Higher Teacher Certificate (HTC) and have taught for over eight years, yet neither has received a salary from the government.
“With all my qualifications, I have taught for nine years without a pin code,” Elizabeth said.
“We are amputees. We work, but they don’t pay us,” Catco re-echoed. “How do they expect us to survive when we are not paid?”
For the amputees, teaching without pay is more than a financial burden; it is a blow to dignity and purpose.
The Teaching Service Commission (TSC) does not give special consideration to war amputees, according to the Public Relations Officer of the Commission, Jammie Abdulai Sankoh. However, she said, the Commission has an open recruitment policy that gives preference to persons with disabilities.
Despite this policy, Catco said he has visited the Commission numerous times and even paid money to secure a pin code, but without success. He has a wife and two children who are all dependent on him.
“How do you survive?” I asked.
“I beg family members for support,” he replied.
The issue of unpaid salaries for teachers in Sierra Leone extends beyond amputees and has been a significant concern nationwide. According to a 2018 Awoko Newspaper report, TSC stated that approximately 70,000 teachers were not on the government payroll.
Additionally, teachers are among the lowest-paid public sector workers, despite accounting for 40 percent of the monthly wage bill. Government officials often cite budget constraints as a challenge in addressing teacher recruitment and salary increases.
“They don’t recognize us”
Catco believes their problem began during the peacekeeping process, when more attention was given to the perpetrators than them, the victims.
“We didn’t get much support during peacekeeping,” he said. “More support was given to the perpetrators of the war than to us. We were supposed to get more, but now we get nothing.”
The emotional toll is equally devastating. The amputees report feeling abandoned and invisible, forgotten by the society where they were victimized for something they and their parents had no control over.
They feel sidelined. In public spaces, they endure stares and whispers, with some people treating them like beggars. Elizabeth and Catco said they have faced outright discrimination in public transportation and markets.
““If you don’t control your heart, you can’t live among able-bodied people,” Elizabeth said. “In transportation, if you sit down first, people hesitate to sit next to you, no matter how well-dressed you are.”
At the market, it’s worse. The Amputees said traders are reluctant to serve them. Even responding to their greetings is difficult because people assume all disabled people are beggars.
“Sometimes when I go to buy something, people assume I can’t pay. They ignore me until they see me take out money,” Catco said.
Even in our communities, we are treated unfairly, Elizabeth said, people often assume we are at fault during misunderstandings. “If you have a dispute, even if you are in the right, people will still say, ‘they’re disabled, and that’s how they behave. That breaks you down and makes you hesitate to seek justice.”
“The life of a disabled person in this country is horrible,” she added.
Despite these challenges, war amputees like Catco and Elizabeth continue teaching, demonstrating strength and perseverance.
“I teach because I believe in the power of education to change lives,” Catco said. “But I also hope that one day, my country will recognize my sacrifice and give me a pin code.”
This story is brought to you with support from the Africa Transitional Justice Legacy Fund (ATJLF) through the Media Reform Coordinating Group (MRCG) under the project “Engaging Media and Communities to Change the Narrative on Transitional Justice Issues in Sierra Leone.”
