Liberia holds funeral for ex-leader Doe decades after assassination
MONROVIA - Hundreds of people gathered Friday in rural Liberia for the state funeral of authoritarian former president Samuel Doe 35 years after his assassination, part of the country's ongoing reconciliation efforts over its violent past.
Doe's brutal 1990 torture and murder were an early turning point in the two civil wars that killed around 250,000 people and ravaged Liberia's economy.
He is being commemorated at his home compound in southeastern Grand Gedeh County alongside his wife, Nancy, who died in May and will be buried at the estate.
Liberians gathered along the route Friday as the couple's caskets his symbolic, and hers containing her body were slowly driven through the county capital of Zwedru on the bed of a truck decorated in bunting in the country's red, white and blue colours.
The state ceremony is being attended by President Joseph Boakai, who declared a period of mourning this week from Tuesday to Friday, with flags flown at half-mast.
AFP | MATTHEW JACOBS
His executive mansion Facebook page said the commemorations are part of a "broader effort" meant to "promote national reconciliation".
The circumstances surrounding Doe's death mark a notorious episode in Liberia's history.
Infamous warlord Prince Johnson, a key player in the civil wars (1989 to 2003), appeared in a video watching his fighters slowly mutilate and torture Doe to death while he calmly sipped a beer.
Various rumours but little concrete information exists as to the fate and location of Doe's remains following his death.
Doe's own rise to power was also steeped in violence.
His 1980 to 1990 rule remains divisive, remembered by many Liberians as a brutal dictatorship, while others recall some transformative measures he implemented fondly.
Liberian Mercy Janjay Seeyougar told AFP in Monrovia ahead of the funeral that she remembered how Doe once gave her a candy, and that during street cleanings he would "stop and be with the people who are doing the cleaning".
AFP | Matthew Jacobs
In 1980, Doe, then an army sergeant in his late 20s, led a coup assassinating president William Tolbert, the last in a line of leaders from the Americo-Liberian ruling class comprised of the descendants of former US slaves.
Quickly establishing a regime of terror, Doe had 13 members of the government he had overthrown publicly executed on a beach and his regime subsequently jailed or persecuted many of its opponents.
He was elected in a 1985 presidential vote that many observers said was marked by fraud.
The brutality of his regime, combined with declining economic conditions and favouritism towards the Krahn ethnic group of which he was a member, led to increased unpopularity.
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eNCA
6 hours ago
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Liberia holds funeral for ex-leader Doe decades after assassination
MONROVIA - Hundreds of people gathered Friday in rural Liberia for the state funeral of authoritarian former president Samuel Doe 35 years after his assassination, part of the country's ongoing reconciliation efforts over its violent past. Doe's brutal 1990 torture and murder were an early turning point in the two civil wars that killed around 250,000 people and ravaged Liberia's economy. He is being commemorated at his home compound in southeastern Grand Gedeh County alongside his wife, Nancy, who died in May and will be buried at the estate. Liberians gathered along the route Friday as the couple's caskets his symbolic, and hers containing her body were slowly driven through the county capital of Zwedru on the bed of a truck decorated in bunting in the country's red, white and blue colours. The state ceremony is being attended by President Joseph Boakai, who declared a period of mourning this week from Tuesday to Friday, with flags flown at half-mast. AFP | MATTHEW JACOBS His executive mansion Facebook page said the commemorations are part of a "broader effort" meant to "promote national reconciliation". The circumstances surrounding Doe's death mark a notorious episode in Liberia's history. Infamous warlord Prince Johnson, a key player in the civil wars (1989 to 2003), appeared in a video watching his fighters slowly mutilate and torture Doe to death while he calmly sipped a beer. Various rumours but little concrete information exists as to the fate and location of Doe's remains following his death. Doe's own rise to power was also steeped in violence. His 1980 to 1990 rule remains divisive, remembered by many Liberians as a brutal dictatorship, while others recall some transformative measures he implemented fondly. Liberian Mercy Janjay Seeyougar told AFP in Monrovia ahead of the funeral that she remembered how Doe once gave her a candy, and that during street cleanings he would "stop and be with the people who are doing the cleaning". AFP | Matthew Jacobs In 1980, Doe, then an army sergeant in his late 20s, led a coup assassinating president William Tolbert, the last in a line of leaders from the Americo-Liberian ruling class comprised of the descendants of former US slaves. Quickly establishing a regime of terror, Doe had 13 members of the government he had overthrown publicly executed on a beach and his regime subsequently jailed or persecuted many of its opponents. He was elected in a 1985 presidential vote that many observers said was marked by fraud. The brutality of his regime, combined with declining economic conditions and favouritism towards the Krahn ethnic group of which he was a member, led to increased unpopularity.
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IOL News
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Israelis are trapped in a narrative that diminishes their empathy
The humanitarian situation in Gaza remains dire despite aid beginning to trickle back into the territory after a more than two-month Israeli blockade. Food security experts say starvation is looming for one in five people. Israel has also intensified its military offensive in what it says is a renewed push to destroy Hamas. Image: AFP Yaseen Burt A FEW days before the fateful events of October the 7, 2023, I accepted a job offer from an Israeli company, a decision that came with a heavy sense of conflict. As a coloured South African with a childhood framed by apartheid, my heart has long aligned with the struggle for Palestinian justice. Yet, despite my personal and documented opposition to Zionism, I found myself drawn to this opportunity, not to endorse its government's policies, but to understand the mindset of those who live inside Israel itself. After heated debates and consultations with close friends and family, I decided to take the job and allow myself to remain in it for no more than one year. What followed was an immersion into a world of contradictions: people who could be unfailingly polite one minute and, the next, perfectly comfortable with justifying the most brutal violence against a neighboring people. On the surface, the workplace was professional and respectful. I was treated, day after day, with a courtesy that one might expect between colleagues. Yet, beneath that veneer was a collective blindness so complete it bordered on willful ignorance. Nearly every Israeli I worked with was solidly behind the so-called war in Gaza - a war that has wrought devastation on countless Palestinian families. But in our personal interactions, there was no trace of hostility directed at me. It was, perhaps, a cold civility, a compartmentalisation. I met their children and spouses via video calls and saw their daily routines unfold, the everyday life of people who, it seemed, could not conceive of the suffering so close by. At one point, a co-worker mentioned how he routinely looked forward to Christmas meals prepared by Christian Palestinians. The remark hung in the air like bitter irony because, at that very moment, Israeli forces were systematically demolishing Christian holy sites, their artillery reducing both sacred spaces and civilian lives to rubble. According to the Zionist vision for Greater Israel, one day there would be no non-Jews left in the land they call holy, their presence erased alongside anyone who doesn't ascribe to the Jewish faith. This very awkward conversation was a grim reminder that what may seem like cultural nods often mask a violent reality. In another moment, I overheard a recorded conversation between an Israeli-American co-worker and an American client. The prior expressed, quite briefly, a sense of guilt and sympathy for the suffering meted out on Gaza's population, only to catch himself mid-thought and shut it down. This self-censorship spoke volumes about the social and political pressures framing their collective conscience. It was as if empathy was a forbidden language, one spoken in whispers and quickly silenced. New Israeli colleagues who joined the company would instinctively raise an eyebrow and thus reveal their surprise at working alongside a South African Muslim. After initial introductions, they would slip into Hebrew—and I, despite not knowing the language, caught words like 'Islam' and 'Hamas' or 'Muslim' tossed around as they questioned their colleagues about me. The assumption was clear: I was an outsider, a symbol of a feared adversary rather than a fellow professional. Their lack of awareness that I could decipher the gist of these conversations only added to the disquiet, exposing the undercurrent of suspicion tinted by their worldview. One cultural detail stood out starkly: Israeli humour. Sharp, irreverent, often self-deprecating, it serves as a coping mechanism, a way to digest centuries of Jewish suffering and historical trauma. This humour is a shield, yes, but it also carries within it a troubling darkness. When turned toward Palestinians, it twists into a form of dehumanisation. What may appear as lighthearted banter becomes a language of dismissal, a way to justify or obscure brutality. The genocide unfolding in Gaza was routinely framed to me not as a moral abyss, but as a necessary war, a defensive act sanctioned by history and circumstance. The concept of a 'just war' was a collective refrain. This raises questions few Israelis openly ask. How can a people who suffered during one of history's greatest atrocities be so blind to the suffering they inflict on others? How can the pain inflicted on Jews be wielded as a rationale to deny the humanity of Palestinians? The answer, I came to understand, lies at the intersection of history, psychology and propaganda. The sense of victimhood is overwhelming and deeply ingrained in Israeli society. Every age group I encountered, from young women in their early twenties to seasoned older citizens, shared the belief that their history of persecution, the extermination of six million Jews, grants them moral and political license. In their collective psyche, this trauma justifies almost any means necessary to defend themselves. The world, in their eyes, does not comprehend this narrative, which is why Israeli actions, no matter how devastating, are tolerated or endorsed. Yet, this victimhood blinds them to the equally long and painful history of dispossession, displacement and occupation of the Palestinians that has lasted for generations. Between January and September 2023, hundreds of Palestinian children were killed in the West Bank alone. The year leading up to October 7 of that year marked one of the deadliest periods for children in that area, with shootings, military raids and settler violence exacting a grim toll. This is not collateral damage; it is a steady drumbeat of violence that Israeli society often views through a lens of justification or necessary security measures. And the irony runs deeper still. Many Israelis today label the United Nations, whose 1947 partition plan granted them statehood, as an antisemitic institution. Once a facilitator of their national birth, the UN is now vilified in Israeli political discourse. Any criticism of Israel is spun as antisemitism, a tactic that shields policies of occupation and ethnic cleansing from serious scrutiny. This twisting of history and language creates a fortress of denial that's hard to breach from within. The cultural dynamics within Israeli society also reveal hints of strain and neurosis. Conversations in offices and meetings were often marked by a staccato exchange of raised voices, constant interruptions and people talking over one another. There was little space for quiet reflection or agreement when it came to the smallest of work-related matters. This cacophony felt emblematic of a society in tension, split within itself. It reflected an internal fracturing just as much as the external fractures with their neighbours and much of the rest of the world, for that matter. When it comes to the broader political landscape, one cannot ignore the role of Israeli leadership, particularly that of Benjamin Netanyahu and other genocidal and messianic Zionists like Itamar Ben-Gvir and their ilk. Under Netanyahu's long and controversial tenure, fear has become an instrument of power. The government's narrative frames Palestinians as existential threats and justifies the most extreme violence in their name. This strategy of fear-mongering is a masterful exercise in brainwashing, blinding many Israelis to the fact that their real enemies are not external powers like Iran, but their own government's depletion of moral compass and international standing. Netanyahu's policies have consistently fueled instability in the region rather than security. A recent report by Haaretz, Israel's leading liberal newspaper, highlights that more than 80 percent of Israelis support the forced displacement of Palestinians from Gaza. This overwhelming majority is a signal that the politics of ethnic cleansing no longer exist only on the margins; they have entered the mainstream. What sustains this consensus is not just politics, but a deep wariness backed by decades of demonising Palestinians. The religious dimension adds yet another layer to this complex picture. Although Israel is defined as a Jewish state and draws justification from biblical claims, most of its citizens are secular or atheist. They do not engage with the scriptures as a spiritual guide, but use the Bible as a political artifact. This instrumentalisation of faith to justify policies that contradict its ethical foundations is a stark paradox. One wonders how a people so removed from religious observance come to wield ancient texts as weapons in a modern political conflict. But despite the grim realities, there is a glimmer of hope inside Israel: a small but brave minority consistently speaks out against the genocide in Gaza. Protesters take to the streets with images of Palestinian victims, often facing abuse and hostility from neighbours. Writers like the courageous Gideon Levy and others dare to voice truths that many shy away from. These Israelis separate Judaism from Zionism, exposing the dangerous conflation that blinds so many. Their courage offers a vital counter-narrative and reminds us that Israel is not a monolith. After my 12 months with the company, I left with a sense of profound sadness, tempered by cautious hope. I had witnessed up close how a society shaped by its own history of suffering could, in many ways, become blind to the suffering it inflicts on others. Israelis are not villains born in a vacuum; they are human beings, complex and capable of kindness, yet trapped in a narrative that numbs their empathy and justifies acts that should shock any conscience. The entitlement and fear that fuel this blindness are not just political tools, but have seeped into the fabric of everyday life, feeding a collective mood of anxiety and suspicion that corrodes trust within and without.
