The court has largely fulfilled its mandate to create a forum capable of
trying political leaders. Former Liberian president Charles
Taylor, the man most widely blamed for the civil war in neighboring Sierra
Leone, is behind bars, indicted by the court. (He and his trial, however, were
moved to The Hague for security reasons.) Twelve other people -- a who's who of
the conflict's leaders -- were indicted.
But some Sierra Leoneans say there have been missed opportunities to bolster
the nation's own troubled national court system or to deliver a brand of justice
that would make the war's victims feel their suffering had been avenged.
"They're psychologically detached from it, despite the geographical
proximity" of the court, said Ansu B. Lansana, secretary general of one of
Sierra Leone's political parties and a former attorney for two of the convicted
defendants. "People really hardly talk about it."
The court's indictment of Taylor was crucial in forcing him from power in
August 2003, bringing a long-awaited peace to neighboring Liberia,
many analysts in the region say. Taylor's arrival in Freetown
aboard a U.N. helicopter in March 2006, after a period of exile in Nigeria,
is remembered as the emotional high point for the Special Court. Thousands of
Sierra Leoneans lined the streets, even climbing onto rooftops to watch.
During its six years of operation, only a tiny percentage of Sierra Leoneans
have ever visited the court, which is surrounded by walls and a series of
heavily guarded gates. Those who do venture in find a place that looks and feels
like a U.N. facility anywhere in the world, complete with gun-toting,
blue-capped soldiers and a cafeteria menu dominated by pizza and hamburgers.
"The ownership is not there," said John Caulker, executive director of Forum
of Conscience, who travels widely in Sierra Leone to speak with war victims.
"There's no way you can call that a court for Sierra Leoneans when most Sierra
Leoneans can't even access the court."
The type of justice practiced there, behind floor-to-ceiling bulletproof
glass that makes the courtrooms appear like enormous aquariums, has also left
many Sierra Leoneans puzzled.
Leaders of the Civil Defense Forces, regarded by many in Freetown as valiant
defenders of their city against vicious rebels, have seen their misdeeds
prosecuted with as much zeal as those of the attackers. And even the worst
crimes cannot result in the death penalty, which is generally popular among
Sierra Leoneans.
The most common complaint here about the court is the cost. More than $150
million has been spent on prosecutions. By the time the court finishes its work
in 2010, the total cost is projected to reach $212 million -- a massive sum for
a country that the United Nations ranks as the least developed in the world.
"The money they have spent for the courts is [worth] nothing," said Kallon,
as her two older children, Christiana Johnson, 7, and Michael
Johnson, 3, lingered nearby. "My foot is gone, and it's not coming back." It
would have been better to use the money, she said, "to educate my kids."
Court officials say they have aggressively reached out to Sierra Leoneans
through community meetings, radio broadcasts and information booklets that
declare "No Peace Without Justice."
Lead prosecutor Stephen Rapp, an American, said Sierra Leoneans who want
lower-ranked perpetrators brought to justice should urge their members of
parliament to encourage the national court system to act.
Within Sierra Leone, however, there is little sign of the political will to
try a broader group of war criminals.
Mamusu Thoronka, 41, a trader and mother of six, still vividly recalls how a
small band of rebels retreating from Freetown in 1999 pressed her left arm to
the floor and hacked off her hand with a machete. A second whack on her right
wrist severely damaged but failed to fully detach her other hand, which was
reattached by a surgeon several days later.
"The Special Court is there to ensure that what has happened will not happen
again," said Thoronka, who has been selected as a possible witness in the Taylor
trial. But like other victims, she has little faith that those who cut off her
hand will ever face justice. Her far more urgent concern is figuring out how to
feed her family, now that she has only two functioning fingers on a single hand.
Washing clothes, preparing food, even dressing herself is a struggle.
Some Sierra Leoneans say that the vast majority of war crimes could have been
prosecuted in the courts here with more international help, including bringing
judges from other countries with legal systems derived, like Sierra Leone's,
from British common law.
"In the outside world, you can think of Charles Taylor as the link," said
Jabati Mambu, 24, secretary of the Amputee Association of Sierra Leone. "But
here there are actual perpetrators. The actual people need to be punished."
