Driving to the Tibhirine Monastery near Médéa

The morning of Tuesday, May 1^st, Douglas and I attended a group tour to the Tibhirine Monastery with fellow embassy personnel. I never heard of this place nor did I know the significant story behind this particular monastery. Twelve of us participated in the trip. The Community Liaison Officer (CLO) arranged for two armored vehicles to transport us to the venue. The group split up, and six of us went in one van and seven in the other. I noticed there were police on motorcycles, in front of the first van and behind the second. I thought it was odd, but soon discovered that whenever we travel outside the designated “green zones” we must be escorted by police.  Due to the restrictions for U.S. personnel in this country, we are not permitted to freely explore Algeria on our own or without permission. If we want to travel by ourselves outside the listed “green zones” then we must submit paperwork to the government and inform them of our desired destination. Most people prefer to travel with the embassy tour group, since it’s the CLO’s responsibility to report all necessary paperwork to government officials. The task is cumbersome, but I can’t complain because those are extra measures in place for my protection.

Before leaving, the CLO informed us the drive would take approximately one hour. I have always enjoyed riding in a car opposed to driving. Although I like to get behind the wheel of my car and drive anywhere I want, it’s not the same as being a passenger and getting driven around. I find that experience to be very calming. Therefore, when the CLO mentioned how long we would be in the car, I did not have a problem with the length of time stated. I planned to relax, sit back and observe all the sights Algeria had to offer, beautiful or not.

Driving is typically bad and a bit dangerous in Algiers. The streets are narrow and crowded, and there are hardly any traffic lights available. Instead the city has policemen standing in the middle of certain intersections, directing traffic. I figured I would not truly relax until we got on the highway, which would take about ten to fifteen minutes longer. There were loads of cars piling into the center of the street. There were large intersections with vehicles coming from five to six different directions trying to enter. Other cars made it clear that they were going to either cut you off or move their vehicle practically on top of yours to ensure they were next in line to enter a lane. It makes absolutely no sense. It reminded me of driving in other big cities such as New York, DC, and Los Angeles. But not one of those cities could come close in comparison to driving in Algiers. I never thought the day would come when I would say, “I prefer to drive in NY, DC, or LA right now.”

Fifteen minutes later, the vans reached the highway. I thought I would feel relieved now that we were out of the city traffic. However, we began to go very fast. I could sense the urgency for our van to stay close to the van in front. I made a comment about it aloud. One of the passengers then told me that our van could not allow any vehicle to come in between us and the van in front. It’s protocol. Consequently, the driver did everything, and I mean everything, to ensure no one jumped in between. We were an example of tailgating at its finest; not in a good way either. There were several moments when I thought we were going to find ourselves smashing into the back of the van in front. There couldn’t have been more than a couple inches of space in between the vans at most times. This is when I realized I better secure my seat belt a little tighter and give up on the idea of a peaceful ride to Médéa. Shortly into the drive, we pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and stopped. Apparently we would not have the same escort the entire way. As we entered a new city, we had to change police escorts. It’s a territorial thing. The police of that city are the only ones allowed to escort us through the respective city. There were two more similar stops along the way, as we passed through two more cities before reaching Médéa. The new escort took off and we were back on the highway.

We drove expeditiously down the highway. I felt like I was in an ambulance being taken to the nearest hospital. I thought to myself, “Is it that serious? Do we really need to be going this fast?” Apparently, when you are led by an escort there is no such thing as waiting. The driver simply pushes the vehicle through wherever it wants to go. It’s no different than what an ambulance, fire truck or police car would do if they needed to immediately report to a scene or less importantly, catch the lunch special before the restaurant changes over to a dinner menu.

We were driving at a speed of approximately 70 mph, but several of the cars next to us looked like they were only going a good 50 mph. With the horsepower that van had, it felt even faster! Our driver previously worked with the Protective Service Unit (PSU). The PSU drivers are serious. They go to a special school in DC to receive training on how to move armored vehicles in tight situations without causing any damage. It takes true technique and talent to maneuver such large and heavy vehicles in and out of congested traffic and confined areas. Our driver must have graduated at the top of his class. Lucky us!

Next we exited the highway and entered the city streets. These streets looked quite different than those in Algiers. There were people standing on the side of the roads either selling local products or produce, or simply hanging out with their family. As well, there were animals on the side of the road just chillin’ out. We even saw a herd of cows near on the edge of the road. The police escort somehow forced them to move out the way. Like I said, our vehicles don’t wait. We push our way pass anyone or any animal in this case.

While looking out the window you could see people staring at our vehicles driving by. They gawked at us as if we were a part of the President’s motorcade. They probably thought to themselves, “Those people must be important.” Heck I sure did! I wondered if it was really imperative that we arrived to this monastery by a certain time. If not, I surely didn’t mind waiting in a little traffic. Granted the traffic was horrible, but at moments I literally felt my life flash before my eyes as I thought, “Oh no, the car is about to hit us!” Or, “Eek, that was a close call!” or “Seriously? Are we really squeezing through these cars on this tight road?” I began to ponder if waiting would really be that terrible. However, I would not find out the answer on this trip. We bobbed and weaved in and out of traffic until we finally reached the monastery. The area looked hidden and isolated, but I had never been so happy to get out of a vehicle in the middle of nowhere.

A small man greeted us outside. My first question was, “Where is your bathroom?” I had to pee badly. Luckily I didn’t eat much in the morning. If I had, my breakfast would have been all over the inside of that van.  It didn’t matter to me whether they had an actual toilet or a small hole in the ground that served as a toilet, as I previously saw at other places. I just needed to go! That drive caused everything inside of me to surface, and if I didn’t find a bathroom soon my bladder would begin to show me who was truly in charge. The man directed me to a nearby building and said, “You will find the bathroom upstairs and to the right.” I nodded and smiled graciously as I scurried up the stairs. The bathroom was nothing to rave about, but it did contain normal toilets. It even had a shower too! I was so relieved, because there was no way I could hold it until I got home, as I did on earlier trips.

As I joined the rest of the group, the tour guide (whose name I cannot recall) began briefing us on the history of the monastery. Tibhirine (which means “garden”) is a village found near the foot of the Atlas Mountains. In 1830 a Trappist monastery was founded there. In 1964 eight new monks arrived to the monastery. The monks that resided there were said to have been incredibly kind and generous. One monk was a doctor and provided medicine to sick villagers. The tour guide said this monk would even give medicine or provide assistance to terrorists. The monk did not see such people as evil, only as another man.

Unfortunately, from 1992-2002 there was an Algerian Civil War between the Algerian government and Algerian Islamist Rebels / Islamic Salvation Front (FSI). FSI formed the guerrilla armies and created a war to establish a new government based on Islamic law. On 27 March 1996, several armed men (possibly FSI) entered the Tibhirine monastery and kidnapped seven monks. Two of the monks escaped because they were in separate rooms. Over the next two months (FSI) communicated to the French Embassy via tapes. There were recordings asking for the prison release of Abdelhak Layada, one of FSI’s members and another with voices of the kidnapped monks. The last communication tape relayed the message that FSI  killed the monks on 21 May 1996, just shy of two months after they were kidnapped. A few miles away from Tibhirine, the heads of the seven monks were found in a straight line, one next to the other. Their bodies were never discovered. The tour guide explained that typically when monks die, they wrap their bodies in silk cloth before burying them. However, since only their heads were found they had to place them into the ground as they were. On 2 June 1996, the monks were buried in the cemetery of the monastery.

Currently there is still controversy over the monks’ death. It is not certain whether or not the monks were intentionally killed by guerrilla armies of FSI or accidentally by the Algerian military. According to the account found on Wikipedia, in 2008 there was a report from a Western government official that said the kidnapping had been orchestrated by an Armed Islamic Group (GIA), and the monks had been killed accidentally by an Algerian military helicopter attacking the camp where they were being held captive. GIA formed when FIS was banned in 1991, at which point they began an armed campaign against the Algerian government.

                                                                                            

In 2009 a retired French general testified to a judge that it was true the monks had been killed accidentally by a helicopter belonging to the Algerian government during an attack on the guerrilla army. He said the Algerian government then beheaded the monks after their death to make it appear as though the GIA had killed them. Conversely, former GIA leader Abdelhak Layada, who was imprisoned during the monks' kidnapping, responded by claiming that the GIA had indeed beheaded the monks after the breakdown of negotiations with the French secret services. Sadly there is no clear truth to anyone’s story; thus, the killing remains currently unsolved.

Our tour guide said after this occurred there was only one person who remained at the monastery. The monastery remains open for tours and accepts donations to assist in its upkeep. The monastery is not extremely large. The guide took us into a few rooms which included the head monk's room, their dining room, and one of their sleeping quarters. The guide also took us outside for a gorgeous view of the Atlas Mountains, which separate the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. Algiers is located directly off the Mediterranean Sea. The view was stunning. It looked like something you would find in a magazine or movie. 

 

 

 

 

To my disadvantage the guide spoke French the entire time. This made it very difficult to get an adequate understanding of what I was seeing. We did have a member of our group briefly summarize what the guide said, but it was simply a summary, leaving out the details that accurately painted a picture for you. I eventually found out plenty more detailed information at the end of the tour from another gentleman who helped at the monastery. 

 

The last room we entered was filled with photographs and descriptions of the monks’ lives. Also, there was a gentleman selling fresh preserves. One of my mother's friends got me hooked on the delicious variety of fresh preserves a few years ago. They are so sweet and delicious. Douglas and I purchased one jar of apple preserve. 

Everything in the room was written in French, so I didn’t know what was in front of me, but I could surely sense the significance. I was looking at their lives through the years and reading about what great things they did during their lifetime. Instantly I thought to myself, “What descriptions and accounts of me will be on the wall after I die?” I have been in several similar settings in the states; therefore, being around something like this was not new. I read accounts about a person’s life all the time. But to some degree it was different and felt brand new. Something caused me to think about the type of legacy I want to leave behind and the kind of story I want my life to portray. I’m happy that I recognized that feeling and didn’t ignore it. I will repeat myself by saying that during my stay overseas, every experience will teach me something about myself and inspire me to dig a little deeper. In that moment, I dug deeper. 

After the tour, the group went outside to have lunch. It never ceases to amaze me that right around noon I begin to feel the urge to eat. I’m sure it’s because I have trained my body over the years. There was no one large area for all of us to sit, so we dispersed about the grounds to find seating. Douglas and I saw a small cement table with a couple of cement stools that would serve as chairs. I am not a girl who usually loves the outdoors. Actually my family and friends would venture to say I hate the outdoors from the many times I turned down the notion of doing anything outside. Surprisingly, that day I felt otherwise. The weather was beautiful:  clear sky, no wind and very low heat. If I were to dine outside on any day, that was the day! 

Prior to the trip, the CLO informed everyone that we needed to bring our own lunch. He said the monastery did not have any place to buy food or drinks. I had limited food at home that didn’t need to be microwaved, so I was forced to get creative with our lunch options. I packed a sun butter and jelly sandwich (I do not eat peanut butter), an orange, a protein bar, a mixture of almonds, walnuts, and dried cranberries, and a bottle of water. I also had a few cookies that I snacked on throughout the tour. Douglas opted not to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and instead filled up on snacks consisting of beef jerky, a mixture of nuts, an orange, a granola bar, cheese crackers, and water to wash it all down with. That was our lunch. Obviously, it was nothing fancy, but it satisfied our hungry bellies.

There was a large amount of time allotted for our lunch break - almost ninety minutes. That time may have been useful if we had the option of driving somewhere for lunch, but we didn’t. And we definitely didn’t need that much time to consume our little picnic lunches. Douglas and I spent some time wandering around the garden. My husband is totally opposite from me as he adores the outdoors and everything affiliated with nature. We sat by a long wall that had teeny openings near the ground. A woman came up to us and excitedly said, “There are turtles in there!” Certainly, this sparked Douglas’s interest. However, I thought to myself, “And that interests me because…?” Douglas bent down and proceeded to search for a turtle and to his amazement he found one. I whispered to myself making sure he didn’t hear me, “Please don’t pick it up.” Seconds later Douglas looked up to me and happily said, “I’m going to pick it up!” Well great! The turtle was so tiny in between his big fingers. He examined the turtle by flipping it upside down several times, looking for who knows what. Hopefully that appeased his fixation with turtles and all other crawling creatures out there. He placed the turtle back near a small opening and we continued to stroll through the garden. I kindly offered him some hand sanitizer, although it was more of a demand than a question.

Along our walk we bumped into a fellow group member who worked with FSI (Foreign Services Institute). As a reminder, all personnel at any U.S. Embassy who is not a local to the country works for FSI in DC. Oddly enough the first question the woman asked us was, “Did you know there are lots of turtles out here?” Yes, I’m well aware that the monastery has now kidnapped all the turtles of Médéa.

This woman was tall and had beautiful skin. We passed by her a few times during the tour but hadn’t spoken. I introduced myself and asked her name. She said, “My name is Francoise.” It’s pronounced “fran swa.” But she was careful to mention that it’s pronounced with the letter “z” sound on the end like, “fran swaz.” Without the “z” sound it would denote the person is a man. I was not shy at all to come right out and tell her she had lovely skin. I think it’s good for women to compliment one another often. She seemed shocked but replied, “Oh thank you. You’re so sweet.” This ignited a conversation that turned into a trade of beauty secrets which was of great interest to me. However, poor Douglas stood there with his sunglasses on probably rolling his eyes at every word spoken. Maybe now he would know how I felt when I had to entertain that playing with the turtle nonsense. Ha!

Francoise said she was from Rwanda. I know this may sound like a stereotype, but I also believed women from Africa have exceptionally flawless skin. At least it’s not a bad stereotype. Every woman I have ever met from the continent of Africa has had glowing, smooth, clear skin. I always wondered what products they used there. Being naïve and a bit silly, I imagined they used some type of special berries and juices mixed with the leaves of an endogenous plant found only in Africa. I curiously said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you use on your skin?” Wasn’t I flabbergasted when Francoise answered, “I use Clinique.” Seriously! My jaw dropped as Douglas’s did too. He’s not even into that sort of thing, but was just as shocked as I was to hear her say “Clinique.” Francoise said she’s been using Clinique for twenty years. She doesn’t like trying new things so when she found something that worked she stuck with it. Well, isn’t that a easy recipe to follow. I know I’m not the only woman who was a product junkie at some point in their lives and had a bathroom filled with so many products they could open a store. I have been using Proactiv for the past ten years, and it has worked well for me. But scanning her blemish free skin, I was tempted to go online to Clinique’s website that evening and place an order. Obviously, that is the problem with us ladies today. We don’t know how to stick with a regime that already works.

I enjoyed talking with Francoise. Once we got past discussing beauty tips, we began discussing our roles at the embassy. She works in another part of Africa but swapped places with an American embassy member in her same job position so they could both gather tips on ways to improve their work. Francoise planned to stay in Algiers for three weeks. I wish this concept was enforced at my previous job in Beaufort, SC. I sure would have enjoyed trading places with a staff member in Hawaii. (Tip number one: all work is best done sitting by the beach drinking a frozen beverage.)

Francoise remarked on how much her children loved living overseas during some of her past assignments. She also made a few other comments regarding her children. Once more I was inquisitive. I didn’t mean to pry, but I asked, “How old are your children?” I expected her to tell me they were between the ages of seven and eleven. Her skin was not only perfect, but she also was quite slender and appeared to be somewhat young. Francois was taken aback again by my question. She laughed and said, “Oh dear, now you want me to show my age.” Usually when someone says that, it means they are probably older than they want to disclose, except Francoise didn’t look “old” to me. Opposed to saying her actual age, she instead said, “My youngest son is eighteen and my oldest daughter is twenty-one.” Yet again, I was astonished by her response and my face showed it. Douglas was also in amazement. I quickly did the math in my head and assumed that even if Francoise had her daughter at twenty-one, that would make her forty-two, and she showed no resemblance of being in her forties. I pegged her as being in her early thirties. It’s never fun guessing a woman’s age. Luckily I don’t do this sort of thing often, but that day I didn’t leave much to my imagination. Undeniably I told her she looked great! Francoise said she was very humbled and appreciated my nice comments. She went on to say that she has always been pretty athletic, exercises, and eats well. She has played tennis for the past twenty years and loves it!

Francoise had a cast on her arm and informed me that it was from an injury that happened while playing tennis. However, once it was healed she would resume playing. Francoise said that has always been her attitude. If you get hurt, just get back up and keep going. She passed that same discipline down to her children by always encouraging them to go outside and play or join a sports group.  It’s that simple, I thought quietly. Francoise has the recipe for success by doing a physical activity that she enjoyed, remaining active throughout her life, and making healthy choices, which has ultimately allowed her to be a prime role model for her children. I admired her view and actions that followed.

During our conversation and my many questions, Francoise managed to get in one or two herself. She asked me if I spoke another language. A little embarrassed, I replied, “No. I only speak English.” I was embarrassed because I have noticed that most non-Americans speak at minimum, two languages. She proved me right when I asked her what other languages she spoke. I was not at all surprised when Francois said she spoke five languages. She studied three of them over the past few years during her work in various countries. The other two she learned while growing up in Rwanda. Francoise spoke her native language, but also picked up the language of her neighbors residing in the Congo. Francoise said, “I played outside with children every day that spoke a different language, so it was only natural for me to learn their language.” I thought to myself, “If it were natural to pick up the language of your neighbors then I should be fluent in both Spanish and Patois (pronounced “patwah”) since I grew up in the Bronx where most of my friends were Puerto Rican, Dominican, or Jamaican.” Francois said she raised her children the same way. They too speak other languages. This was another outlook and view of hers that I also admired and greatly respected. I was unbelievably intrigued by Francoise and our topics of discussion. I soon became grateful for that ninety minute lunch break.

It was 2:15 p.m. and we were scheduled to leave at 2:30 p.m. The group began to appear from various areas of the garden where they found a place to eat lunch. Although, the tour was a bit short and conducted in French, I appreciated the experience. I learned a great deal about the significance of the Tibhirine Monastery and the monks that lived there. Each time I think of them I will be saddened by the brutal way they were killed. Justice has yet to be served as their deaths are still unsolved. Despite this, the village of Tibhirine and its surrounding cities continue to live at peace and remain thoughtful and generous to all those in need. The tour guide and fellow workers at the Tibhirine Monastery bid us farewell and thanked us for visiting.

 I don’t know if I was prepared for the roller coaster ride I was about to have sitting in that van while driving back to Algiers. Once again, it was a good thing I didn’t have a heavy lunch because it was going to be a bumpy ride. Just as before, the police escorted us along our way. By the time we got on the road it was after 3 p.m. Traffic was a lot heavier. Before we left the city there was one stop the CLO wanted to make. He took us to a large market where people sold Algerian artifacts. You couldn’t miss this place off the side of the road. It was huge! Almost anything you wanted was sold there. And the prices were cheap too. Apparently, the same items sold in Central Algiers are nearly double the price. Although there was lots to choose from, Douglas and I already knew what we wanted which was a Tadjine. This is an item used to serve food or to store snacks and candies. I first saw it a few days prior while dining at a gentleman’s house on my tour of the Casbah. I would love to acquire a full set one day. 

The Tadjine we purchased

 After a half hour we all got back into the vans and headed to the embassy. Once again, the driver squeezed our van through the narrow streets. Several times we were on a two lane road when the police escort split the traffic down the middle so our vans could go through. The escort waved his hand out the window signaling vehicles to move over and get out the way. One would have thought we were really special. I asked myself that a number of times after releasing a huge sigh of relief when we didn’t get hit by another car while driving so aggressively. “Who are we to cause such ruckus?” We are Diplomats, that’s who we are! I guess that means we are exempt from all traffic laws and common roadside courtesy as well. 

I managed to get a few of our driving excursions on video. The other passengers said that was the only way someone would believe our driving stories. The clips I took on the way home weren’t nearly as bad as the scenes I should have tapped on the way out there, but they were enough to make us raise an eyebrow when going on another long distance trip with the tour group. Thankfully we made it safely back to the embassy around 5:00 p.m. It was another thrilling day filled with enlightening experiences.