NYC-Feature Story

Friendly Fire
A civil war divided my crew

By Boubacar Diallo

It was a typical summer day in Abidjan, the capital of Ivory Coast, where I grew up. I was around 13 years old. Everything was great that day except the weather. It was excessively hot, which puts me on my nerves.

Early that morning I went to my grandma’s house across the street to help with her grocery store. As the sun began burning at over 100° F, something strange happened. We started to see cars coming up the street the wrong way, and people running around not knowing where to go.

At the time, my country was embroiled in a civil war between the north and the south. It all started as a simple political disagreement between the country’s three major politicians, then avalanched into an ethnic conflict, and finally became a war between an armed group from the north and government forces in the south. My family fortunately lived in the capital where combat was rare, but when it did erupt, it was very violent.

Distant Conflicts

Surprised at the chaos in the streets, my grandma and I decided to close the shop to prevent vandalism. Our neighborhood was known for break-ins during riots, so we feared becoming the next victims. I helped her pack her merchandise and we went back to my parents’ house to check the news.

We discovered that the Republican Party, which was the major opponent of the president, had launched a rally—bad news because political rallies always ended in bloodshed. These rallies were mostly used by politicians to create ethnic divisions between the northerners and southerners, and stir up conflict between people who had lived together peacefully before. But luckily, this was happening in another town pretty far away from ours.

The ethnic, religious, and political conflicts in my country always seemed distant to me because my family is a proud example of how different people can live together. I was born into a mix of cultures, traditions, and religions; my father is a Muslim northerner from a family where no one had ever been Christian (or even married to one), and my mother was born and raised in a pious southern Christian family, where she was one of the first ever to wed a Muslim. I have always been proud of them because, despite these differences, my parents managed to live together. They went through hard times, but always found their way out of them.

‘Your People’

Even though nothing too bad was happening in our part of the country, my worried mom asked me to go pick up my siblings from summer school. I left the cool feeling of the house for the extreme warmth outside. Walking around the block, I saw some of my friends playing soccer down the street. I went to see if they had any information about the incidents.

There was my friend Guy, 14 years old at the time, who I had known forever, and two of Guy’s friends, Malick and Ibrahim. I used to hang out with them whenever I was free from house chores. We would play soccer all day long or just hang around trying to holler at some girls. As I came up to them, I noticed that they looked differently at me, so I asked a quick, “What up?”

Nobody answered me at first, so I asked them if they knew anything about what was really happening besides what was being shown on TV.

That’s when Malick said, “Well, all we know is that your people are killing us!”

Offended, I asked, “What you mean by ‘your people’?”

“If it wasn’t for your kind there wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” Malick answered.

Hurt by a Friend

What he said made me angry. I felt my temper rising in my veins. He was suggesting that just because my mom was from the south and Christian, and Malick was a Muslim from the north, the two of us were enemies.

“What the hell you talking about?” I replied with a nervous tone. “I have known you for many years. Since when have I or my people ever threatened you?”

“Oh, well, you never threatened me. You aren’t totally like these bastards!” Malick replied.

His last sentence set me off. It was like I had something on my heart that I could not bear and must let out. For me, as for most African natives, friendship is more than just hanging out. A friend is someone you count on and who, no matter what, will understand you, or at least try to. I considered Malick a friend, so it hurt me that he would first insult my family—“my people,” as he put it—and, secondly, see me as a potential enemy.

The Fighting Hits Home

I was so furious that he would put politics in front of friendship that I literally blacked out. All I can remember is trying to punch Malick or to grab anything that could create real damage. Guy’s two big brothers, who were nearby, ran up to us and fervently tried to separate us. Guy and his brothers were from mixed families just like mine, so all of us usually tried not to discuss political differences.

After many attempts, they finally separated Malick and me. They put me in the corner of a house nearby and made me come back to reason. I was bleeding from the arm but I couldn’t feel anything. My shirt and parts of the shorts I was wearing were ripped and full of dirt. Guy was bleeding from his lips, which I guess happened when he tried to stop the fight.

I quickly felt remorse for what I had done, but Malick obviously did not.

“From now on, you better never show the f-ck up here!” he screamed. “You better watch your ass ’cause next time they won’t be there!” he continued, gesturing at Guy and his brothers.

Guy and his brothers walked me back to my house. Before they left, Guy warned me to take what Malick said seriously. “I know Malick. He won’t let this go,” he said.

Taking Sides, Reluctantly

The next morning, I received a visit from some of my friends who, just like Malick, were taking sides in the political issue. They were loyal to the south, and therefore were willing to go against Malick, who supported the north. They told me that I could count on them and never fear Malick or his group because they would be there for me.

Coming from a family with many differences and little conflict, I always believed that divisions were just a stupid pretext people used to hide their inability to communicate with one another. But I knew I needed protection, so I reluctantly agreed to what they said. This time, taking sides in the conflict was necessary for me, even though it made me upset to take part in something I had always believed was wrong.

After this fight, I became more cautious about what I said, especially to my friends. I was afraid that the next time politics came up, the argument might go beyond a bloodied lip and cut arm. I also carefully chose where I had to be. There were places in my neighborhood that I tried not to frequent, fearing Malick’s retaliation.

After the Storm

Over time I thought more about the whole situation. I was angry at Malick for not being a good friend and for dividing us. But I also noticed that by fighting I was, myself, contributing to the spirit of division. So I decided to try to understand my friend and help him realize that no matter what happens, division isn’t a solution, especially when we all have to continue living next to one another after the storm. I courageously decided to confront him once again, but this time for peace, not war.

Not knowing how Malick felt about the fight, I decided to go slowly with the reconciliation. I first went back to Malick’s block. I feared attacks or provocation, but surprisingly I found love. Malick’s friends, who I thought would hate me for what happened, were glad to actually interact with me again. It seemed that many, like me, had found that despite the conflicts, we are all a family.

It took me a little more time to actually talk to Malick again. But one day, I was going to the public park when I saw him. I had two options: keep walking and act like nothing happened, or be mature and end the conflict.

Making Peace

It scared me at first, but I went to him.

“Malick?” I said, very unsteadily.

“What?” he asked. Malick looked surprised that I’d approached him, and his face still reflected a bit of the hate he had for me.

I was scared, but this was the best occasion I had, so I forced myself to keep speaking.

“Well, before you plan our rematch, I want to tell you that I—I am sorry for what happened. It shouldn’t have ever happened and I think it was my fault. I was your friend and I’m supposed to listen to you. And I hope that one day we will be friends like before.”

Then I started walking away, fearing his answer. It was almost a month before I saw Malick again, but when I did, he said “Hi” to me. His reaction made me feel happy and more secure because it was a sign that he was ready to forgive. After a few months, we started talking again, though we were never as close as we had been before.

Listen, Forgive

Although this happened almost five years ago, the fight had a big impact on my life. It taught me to control myself, to be less heated, and to be more reserved. Now, I carefully listen to others’ political opinions before reacting, especially when I disagree with them.

Now, with my friends or anyone I meet, I try to listen to their feelings and emotions, to look at their faces and sense the fear and pain that might be fueling any disagreements. I know whenever my own parents got in fights, which often had to do with their different family backgrounds, they always—eventually—forgave each other. I try to follow that example and, since the fight with Malick, I’ve managed to find unity in all my relationships.

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