For the past five years, the GANGS project, a European Research Council-funded project led by Dennis Rodgers, has been studying global gang dynamics in a comparative perspective. When understood in a nuanced manner that goes beyond the usual stereotypes and Manichean representations, gangs and gangsters arguably constitute fundamental lenses through which to think about and understand the world we live in.
Kieran Mitton tells us about the life of Gaz, a former Sierra Leonean gang member who became a poet and then a farmer. His remarkable trajectory shows gangsters are by no means doomed to live in the shadow of their former lives and that opportunities to leave can present themselves in all sorts of ways at different moments in time.
I should have brought water. It's hot, humid, and not even midday. Gaz, always with that winning smile, gestures for me to sit and take respite in the shade.
It's August 2022 and we've just arrived at Gaz's farm in northern Sierra Leone, West Africa. We've come to see how he's getting on with his new life. It was hard to believe there would ever be a farm to visit, that he'd one day realise this dream. But here we are. Against the odds, Gaz pulled it off.
Earlier this morning we left Gaz's home in nearby Makeni, central Sierra Leone, a city of just over 85,000 residents, the fifth largest in the country. From the bustling town centre, we weaved through traffic and street traders on our motorbikes, leaving behind the heady scent of diesel and palm oil and a chorus of car horns. We walked the final stretch on foot, along a shady forest path, and waded through waist-deep streams.
Under a big blue sky where lush greenery stretches as far as the eye can see, we're in an idyllic landscape, a world away from that of our first encounter. How did he get here? Gaz the farmer clears his throat, and we begin again to talk about Gaz the gangster.
The Emperor of Freetown
I met Gaz in 2017 while researching the emergence of street gangs in Sierra Leone. After the 1991-2002 civil war, peace builders focused on the risk of ex-combatant remobilisation, but few paid much attention to the "cliques" - informal urban social clubs for a younger generation. By 2017 they had transformed into warring gangs with names like Bloods, Crips, and So-So Black.
Viewing cliques as greedy criminals and deviant "bad boys," authorities took a zero-tolerance approach. But my research revealed that for many members, gang life was about survival; a "game of pain" in an everyday struggle against poverty and "the system". Like others I had spent time with in South Africa and Brazil, many gangsters in Sierra Leone simply felt trapped. Were they trapped? If so, how could they escape? Seeking answers, my friend and Freetown research collaborator, Mohamed S. Kamara, introduced me to Gaz.
In 2008, a 16-year-old Gaz had dropped out of high school in Makeni after frequent clashes with his strict, ex-soldier father. His father had been away during much of the war, fighting for the government against a rebel insurgency. After the war ended in 2002, he was demobilised along with thousands of others across the country, making the difficult transition back to civilian life. In many ways that adjustment was also hard on Gaz, to the point of irretrievable rupture.
Gaz moved to the capital, Freetown, where his gym-honed physique earned him respect from a local clique. Before long, he'd ascended to the lofty position of "Emperor" - the boss of "Giverdam Squad," his own feared street gang. They would hustle to make money. Sometimes they sold drugs, including "jamba" (marijuana) and, in later years, "kush", a cocktail of synthetic drugs that has become notorious for its devastating health impact. Another speciality of his clique was "bulldozing" - getting paid by people in land disputes to destroy buildings and intimidate rivals.
Confrontations with police and rivals were frequent. The red-wearing Bloods were fierce enemies bordering Gaz's neighborhood. Fights were bloody and sometimes fatal, with cycles of revenge making periods of peace rare. Most of this violence, as throughout the city, stemmed from personal feuds and inter-gang rivalries, rather than struggles for control of illicit markets. The drug economy produced little more than a subsistence income. To survive and stay at the top, Gaz needed to be feared.
Escaping
Over the years, Gaz enjoyed his street credentials, but also recalls feeling conflicted and wanting to escape. There were attacks from rival gangs, police beatings, and stints in prison. There was the hypocrisy of elites who paid gangs to carry out violence they publicly condemned. And there were the "ugly things" he didn't want to talk about.
"Sometimes certain things in my story, I don't want to go deep into that. I have some things in my life that I've done that I can never open my mouth about."
When I first met Gaz, it was shortly after his "road to Damascus" moment. He had visited the WAYout youth charity - and discovered a passion for poetry. He began writing poems on his phone, day and night, and began to see himself in a new light, as something other than a gangster.
As we talked in a rusting shack in his neighbourhood, surrounded by his street "soldiers," his face would light up whenever we discussed poetry. Yet, he spoke sombrely about his struggles to escape street life. He read his poem, "Rough Path", which included the lines:
My rough path is a cracked zoneCovered with death trapsI have been chased by hunger and thirstThreatening this precarious pathThat I have been walking so longI'm driving through with a tank filled with faithA Day I will finally quit my rough path.
Relentless in his writing, Gaz soon gained acclaim. An invitation to a writers' conference in Kenya (he couldn't afford to attend) was followed by a Reuters article "Sierra Leone gangster leaves streets for life of poetry". But while his story of transformation was an international hit, Gaz was under no illusions.
"It was never easy to just say 'I've discovered poetry, let me change my life.' I didn't know any other way to survive. When I discovered poetry I was still doing gangbanging."
Poetry didn't pay the bills. Media interest waned. The farm became his solution to literally distance himself from the streets. Scraping together money from his street hustling, small donations from close friends and family, and using a crowdfunding page, he secured a plot of land back near his hometown.
He planned to plant vegetables - yams, pepper, and so forth - and live off the land. If he could make it work, he believed other street youth might pull it off, too. It became an ambitious project - not only a way for him to change, but to help others too.
When he first discussed his idea, it seemed like a long shot. Moving from the streets to the fields. It's still a work in progress. The toil is hard, and the yields are small. But few could have expected him to get this far. And that's the thing about Gaz: once he sets his mind to something, he is relentless.
The story of the story
Sierra Leoneans are tired of hearing their country described as "war-torn." The conflict ended over twenty years ago and there have been successive peaceful elections since. Such labels reinforce inaccurate and unhelpful stereotypes. Nevertheless, chronic poverty and inequality persists. The war may be long gone but the youth marginalisation that fuelled it remains. Concern over where this could lead, particularly after Sierra Leone only recently averted an attempted coup, makes it all the more important to understand how those drawn into gangs - and gang violence - can turn their lives around.
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Individuals like Gaz are rare. Facing the constraints of deep poverty and inequality, regardless of the help they may receive along the way, their progress almost always boils down to one key factor: their personal determination.
Does that mean they are exceptions, examples others might not be able to follow? Reflecting on this, Gaz commented:
"You have people who have the mind to get up and go for themselves. You have other people that need a person to tap them on the shoulder and say 'let's go!"'
He aims to be the person that taps others on the shoulder.
Gaz prefers to frame his story as still unfolding, avoiding complacency. Like him, I am cautious of success stories that are overly simplistic, ignoring the nuances and complexities of the journey. As we record his story, I'm conscious that we're also curating it, packaging it as a product - one that could never fully capture that nuance. We omit, for example, some of the "ugly things" from his past.
I know I'm contributing - not least by preparing this article - to the media coverage of this success. But I can't help but observe the true success of what he has accomplished with so little. That his unwavering determination is still intact is an incredible achievement, and one I've come to admire. Not long ago, Gaz lost his entire farm to a fire. He drew the necessary lessons, and started again from scratch.
Kieran Mitton, Reader in Conflict, Security and Development, King's College London
