Author Archives: Cheryl Oates

About Cheryl Oates

Returning to Africa has been a goal of Cheryl's since she visited Mozambique in 2008. She traveled to the southeast coast to work on a community development project and returned home with a new found appreciation for the Dark Continent and the people who inhabit it. Cheryl has spent the last few years working as a television news producer, videographer and anchor in Alberta, Canada. She feels Journalists for Human Rights is providing her an amazing opportunity to return to Africa and apply her formal training and experience. "My goal is to get as much out of this 6 month adventure as I put into it," Oates says. "I'm excited to witness the kind of changes that can come about through media in Ghana". Cheryl Oates is currently working as a Media Rights Education Officer at the African University College of Communications.

The Road to Wli

Leave a reply

The view was absolutely worth the climb.

In early November, a group of 6 of us set out to take on Wli Waterfall- perhaps the most sought out tourist site in Ghana.

The Upper Falls at Wli

We rolled into town around 4 o’clock. Much to our disappointment, it was pouring rain, so we decided to postpone our visit to the waterfall.

It’s good we did because the storm that ensued was the most constantly ferocious downpour I have ever witnessed. At one point we sought refuge in a church after we attempted to “make a break for it” and get some food. The rain came down so hard I thought it would take the roof off the building.

We all slept early that night and woke up with the sun to have tea and bread and set out up the mountain, determined to take in this waterfall that all the guidebooks have been raving about.

Now, according to the Bradt Guide to Ghana, the upper falls are closed at this time of year due to the amount of rain. So we strolled up to the information booth, expecting to enjoy what the Bradt Guide calls a “flat, easy path through a semi-deciduous forest for 45 minutes to an hour”. Upon hearing that we could in fact venture to the top, we jumped at the chance to prove our ruggedness and tick the trek off our bucket lists.

The hike to the upper falls was definitely not a “flat, easy path” like the road to the lower falls. We spend 2 hours crossing rivers and finding footholds in near vertical portions of the path. The rain had left the throughway soppy, and slippery. As our group of 6, plus our guide- coincidentally called Godsway- made our way up the mountain, we laughed at each other’s expense as nearly every one of us ended up sitting on the path instead of standing on it.

The trail overflowed with native foliage including pineapple and berries. We stopped again and again to marvel at bushes, trees and insects. Giant ants chewed their way through the footpath. Thousands of them moved together. From a few steps away the colony looked like a giant snake.
Huge spiny spiders hung in webs between trees and birds hopped from branch to branch.
As we climbed further towards our destination the humidity was nearly unbearable We were all sweating through our clothes as we leaned on makeshift hiking poles, and pulled our bodies upwards.

Near the top of hike, we paused to look out over the hills, and down at the town of Vli. The view is breathtaking. Nestled in the valley of these giant green monster mountains is this cozy town. You can see for miles.

As we neared the upper falls, Godsway warned us to put our cameras away. We began to feel what we thought were raindrops, and as we got closer to the waterfall we realized it was spray that was whipping us in the face.

As the trees cleared, we could see the falls in all it’s glory. The water cascading down some 70 or so meters over the hills that mark the Togolese border. As the stream hit the pool at the bottom, the water seemed to explode, and the massive spray made it nearly impossible for us to see anything. We had to shield our faces as the water whipped towards us.

We were told this is due to the fact that we visited in rainy season, and if we were to come back after December, the falls are much calmer.

We stuck it out at the base of the falls long enough to say we had been there. We couldn’t take any pictures due to the water and upon a group consensus that we had seen enough; we retreated to a dryer area to eat cookies before starting our descent.

We sang and chanted on the way down. Our bodies shook with fatigue as we retraced our steps, finding the footholds we had dug on our way up.

When we reached the bottom. We took a quick dip in the equally as windy and misty lower falls, had a beer and patted ourselves on the back for a job well done.

The 6 of us went back to our hotel, packed our bags and collapsed into a taxi waiting to take us home.

Social Media and the Power to Create Change In Ghana

Leave a reply

“We live in a global society. Whether we like it or not, we’re connected. “

Michelle Newlands – a Canadian intern working for Journalists for Human Rights – waved her hands emphatically as she spoke to a room filled with Ghanaian youth, media and human rights educators.

“We trade together. We work together. We live side by side, and we can use that as a benefit, or we can use that against us.”

Her message was simple. In this age of online socializing, we have the power to use sites like Facebook and Twitter to engage and inform the public on human rights issues taking place around the globe.

She was the second in a line-up of speakers at the Seminar discussing the Role of Social Media on Human Rights Education in Ghana, held at the African University College of Communications.

“It’s no longer this thing where we read and we consume, and we aren’t able to do anything about it. Technology has progressed to the point where if you read something you can comment and you can encourage more comments. You can share it on Facebook. You can share it on Twitter. You can email it out to your friends, and you can make sure that if you believe something is important, everyone you want to, has access to reading that too.”

Newlands was speaking to a packed room of approximately 50 people. Students and faculty from the African University College of Communications copied notes into their notepads, and representatives from local media houses as well as Amnesty International, Human Rights Advocacy Centre, United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the High Commission of Canada raised their hands to participate in the discussion.

The keen audience raised the obvious question at a seminar based on Internet usage in a third world country: Does this sort of public engagement make sense in a place where most of the population doesn’t have access to the internet?

“Not everyone knows how to turn on a computer never mind use social media. So I think as journalists, or as those of us who have the opportunity to get social media, it’s left to us to reach those who can’t and educate them about what is happening,” said Henry, an AUCC student.

Another AUCC student, Michael Buckla added, “Outside Accra. Facebook, Twitter and the internet is something that comes with the rich. You can imagine, most of the people who are affected by human rights (issues) are people who are in the rural areas – and these things are not accessible there.”

He’s right.
According to The World Bank, although internet access in Ghana has spiked in the last decade – growing from 0.1% of the population with access in 1999 to 5.4% in 2009 – the country is still light-years behind it’s tech savvy North American neighbors.

Lawyer and lecturer of the AUCC, professor Ogochukwa Nwek countered the argument.

“We can do this if we want to and we must stop thinking so much about the limitations. Because mobile telephoning has added a lot of value to the kind of access we’re talking about.”

According to Internetworldstats.com, Facebook, and social networking is not lost on all Ghanaians. As of June 2011 almost a million Ghanaians had a Facebook account. That’s a 4 % penetration rate and falls somewhere in the middle when it comes to African rates.

Those numbers are steadily increasing. Newlands reiterated her stance on the power of social media, stating every person who is currently online has the power to pass their own information on to the people who don’t. She encouraged seminar participants to start a movement in blogging to create change.

“Tonight I would like all of you to go home and find an issue that you believe has a human rights angle, and but it in your Facebook status.”

She reminded us that social media is a tool to connect with people who share the same concerns we do, and it’s also a way to band together and celebrate the success that comes out of community, whether it be online or otherwise.

Students, Media and NGO Representatives take in the seminar on The Role of Social Media on Human Rights Education in Ghana

Finding God In Ghana

Leave a reply

I was already sweating as I darted through the path of cars and tro-tros whizzing down Labadi Beach Road. I was in an appreciative mood thanks to the warm sunshine on my face, and the sound of sing-song humming coming from women dressed in impossibly tailored dresses as they made their way to church.

I had been attending Gospel Pillars Church for 4 consecutive weeks. My friends and family in Canada would tell you this is completely out of character for me. With the exception of a couple of years of Sunday school, and a handful of tag-along expeditions to a smattering of services in my hometown, I do not attend church. I am not religious. For all intents and purposes I am agnostic.

I don’t know why I suddenly felt the urge to attend a service in Ghana. Perhaps it’s the repeated questions from taxi drivers and phone credit retailers on where I attend church, and whether I believe in God that pushed me to test the waters. I wondered why this African nation was so much more open, and dare I say pushy about their belief in a higher power.

Gospel Pillars is a Charismatic Christian fellowship. It services often open with enthusiastic prayer whereby the pastors, and the congregation hold hands as they bounce on the balls of their feet, yelling in tongues as they praise the power that has given them all the blessings they enjoy.

As a westerner, my initial reaction to this kind of unbridled enthusiasm for God was discomfort. I certainly wasn’t going to throw myself into this kind of professional-style praying but I could feel their eyes watching me- begging for me join them and be enlightened.
I joined hands with the man next to me, closed my eyes and prayed for this part of the service to end so I could sit and stop pretending to be a part of something I wasn’t sure I even believed in.

I will say, the services are uplifting and empowering. Pastor A. Michaels paces back and forth across the stage. The church is tucked away in the third floor of a concrete building. The walls are freshly painted, as this ministry is brand new. A keyboardist plays an accompaniment as Pastor- as his parishioners call him- performs his message with a rollercoaster of dynamics. His voice roars through the make-shift church as he bellows into the microphone asking pointed questions like “do you love your job more than your God? Do you love your family more than your God?”.
The keenest members of the congregation shout their answers to the Pastor. Their responses sound almost desperate.

“I love nothing and no one more than God, Sir”.

The Sunday morning service regularly ends with the chanting of the Gospel Pillars confessions. Pastor reads them into his microphone and the church echoes the affirmations back.

“I am a success! I am a man of God! My soul is on fire for Christ!”

Anticipation builds within the rows of plastic chairs and as Pastor calls the ministry’s motto.

“GOSPEL PILLARS!!…..”

Church members yell “UNSTOPPABLE!!!” as they enthusiastically hive five their neighbors.

Sunday October 9th was a special service. 2 Gospel Pillars ministries met to celebrate Exodus; the end of 3 years of war, and the beginning of 3 years of blessing.
In a desperate attempt to end an earlier conversation where I was asked how I planned to serve God, I agreed to video tape this service.

As I scurried up the stairs of the “the old Chick’n Lick’n building”- as the locals call it- The heat of the conference room hit me like a brick wall. The room was filled with a hundred people and the air conditioning wasn’t working.

I set up my camera with one hand while mopping sweat from my forehead and chest with the other. Ghanaians who passed me as they made their way to their seats paused to give me sympathetic looks and apologize for the heat as if they were responsible.

The service was powerful and inspiring. The pastor promised 3 years of prosperity for those who followed the Lord’s path. Once the service has concluded, Pastor began a ritual I hadn’t seen before. Divine Healing.

Divine Healing, or Faith Healing is term largely connected with Christianity. Many churches and followers interpret the bible, and specifically the New Testament as record and proof of the power of faith healing. Stories that the laying of hands have cured various ailments span the globe. Testimonies tell of diseases like AIDS, cancer and multiple sclerosis being banished from a believer’s body upon the completion of the ritualistic prayer.

The belief in this power of prayer was especially evident as faithful Gospel Pillars walked slowly to the front of the room. Some of them were called. Some of them took it upon themselves to ask for blessings. The reasons ranged from a prayer for prosperity to blessing someone who planned to submit a Visa application.

One by one the believers held their hands out as the pastor placed his own on their heads. He prayed for them, sometimes in English, sometimes in tongues. He cast demons out of their bodies and called on the lord to guide them. Then with a gust of wind from his mouth the subject would fly backward, epileptically flailing their arms and legs, screaming and calling for Jesus before their bodies came to rest on the floor.

At this point a church elder would come around to pull the women’s skirts down to a modest level and I assume, make sure she was breathing.

To me, the reactions from this sort of divine healing or blessing seemed too much to be authentic. I questioned the shockingly physical performances, and wondered to myself if this was in fact God’s work, or simply a lavish production for faith’s sake.

I had taken my seat, and put my camera away when I heard Pastor call my name. He welcomed me to the front and asked the congregation to thank me for filming the service in the name of God rather than money.

Everyone clapped, and then as if being cheered on by his fans, the Pastor placed his hands on my head.

My heart stopped and my palms sweat as I dreaded what he was about to do next. Not only was I uncomfortable because of my ambiguous stance on religion and God, but also because I was a westerner in center of a congregation of Africans and against my wishes, I had become a spectacle.

He told me to raise my hands and pray with him.

The agnostic in me wants desperately to say that I felt nothing, but that’s not the truth.

My body grew increasingly hot. This may have been due to the fact that my cheeks were becoming red with embarrassment, but maybe not.

Pastor closed his eyes and called on a higher power. He spoke in tongues, his hand still connected firmly with my forehead. He opened his eyes and let out of the kind of slow breath that would be used to cool hot cocoa. Anxious church members gathered behind me. I felt their hands on my back as they anticipated this soft breeze would cause me to fall backwards in a faithful faint like it had the done to the lineup of people before me.

I was shocked by how my body reacted to his breath. I did indeed feel like it could knock me over. For the sake of my agnostic pride though, I planted me feet and commanded my knees not to give into the process.

Pastor asked into the microphone, “how do you feel?”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t ready to admit that maybe I had felt something. I looked sheepishly up at him and around at the congregation anxiously awaiting my North American perspective.

“Thank you.” I said and I rushed back to my seat.

Since that Sunday morning I have recounted this experience over and over again in my head trying to find a scientific reason for the way my body reacted to Pastor’s words of prayer.

I compared his performance to Hypnosis and the uninhibited feelings and reactions to often ridiculous suggestions while in a trance like state. I told myself it was the pressure of the audience waiting for a North American to conform to the practice of an African church. I even tried to convince myself it was the stifling heat.

I left the church quickly after the program, happy to finally be freed from the stuffy conference center. In the increasingly warming air of a Ghanaian Sunday morning, I shook hands with church members and wished them a good day.
I smiled to myself as I darted back through the traffic on Labadi Beach Road.

Whether or not I had indeed played witness to the power of prayer and divine healing, I felt especially vibrant and strong that day.

Gospel Pillars Ministry, South La, Accra

A Lesson in Liberty at Cape Coast Castle

Leave a reply

The feeling of dark, crowded, stale air is a breath I won’t forget.

The slave dungeon of Cape Coast Castle is still thick with the memory of the unspeakable treatment of thousands of men and women in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries.

I made my way through the nearly 4000 year old building, imagining the people before me, who had walked the same corridors with shackles on their legs. They were hungry, unhealthy, overheated men and women who were sentenced to a life of slavery by no fault of their own.

The men and women were held within the stone walls of the castle while waiting to be transported across the Atlantic to colonies in North and South America. Cape Coast Castle is said to be one of the largest slave holding dungeons of its era. Ten of thousands of Ghanaians were traded for gold, alcohol and guns. The cramped dungeons of Cape Coast were their purgatory before being taken across the atlantic to their dim future of life as slaves in North America.

There are 3 dungeons in the castle. The rooms are small considering they are meant to hold up to 1000 people at at time. In the main male slave dungeon, there are 3 small windows near the ceiling that are the only source of light and fresh air. The men held in the cells for months at a time. They defecated there, and were then made to eat, and sleep in their own mess. As my tour group and I stood staring at the sobering reminder of Ghana’s grim history, our tour guide pointed to white mark on one of the walls. The mark was 2 feet from the ground.

“This is where the feces, urine and vomit level sat. The men who lived in here spent their entire time waist deep in their own waste.”

He then turned out the energy efficient bulb that has been added for the benefit of guided tours and gave us a taste of what it would have been like to live in the dark dungeon.

The thought of men and women living this way is heartbreaking. I couldn’t help but feel shaken by the story of thousands of men and women before me who had braved these unimaginable conditions in the very room I was standing. It’s unconceivable that this kind of injustice was carried out as common practice.

The rest of the tour highlighted 3 graves in the castle courtyard, the women’s quarters- separate for those ladies who offered themselves up to soldiers and those who denied their masters sexual service.

Our guided tour ended with the “door of no return”. Our group waited quietly as the giant gate was opened to reveal the ocean, waves crashing on the rocky shore. This is the same ocean that sealed the fate of tens of thousands of African slaves so many years before.

Like so many before us- we also passed through “the door of no return”. We stood on the shore and I imagined the shackled prisoners making their way through Cape Coast Castle. This was their last stop for slaves before being taken across the ocean, bidding farewell to their homeland and their freedom.

As we turned to make our way back into the castle, our guide pointed out a sign on the outside of the door. It’s shiny white lettering told us- this was a new addition to the castle.
“Door of Return.” It read.

The plaque was placed above the gate as a gesture of reconciliation. It is meant to welcome African Diaspora tourists home. Thousands visit the museum each year.

Ghana gained it’s independence in 1957. That’s when the castle was turned over the Ghana Museums and Monuments Board.

A sign now hangs outside the male slave dungeons. It reads:

“In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We the living vow to uphold this.”

The Door of No Return at Cape Coast Castle

White Wedding.

1 Reply

I was asked to be a part of a wedding purely based on my skin colour.

A teacher at the AUCC; the dean of social science, Osei Piesie happened to catch me on the stairwell leading to my office on a Wednesday.

“Cheryl- Did you come to Ghana with a man?” .. now let me stop there and clarify that this is not a proposition. …Mr. Piesie really wanted to get in touch with a white man… any white man.

“My daughter is getting married this weekend- she’s marrying a white man and his family can’t come. None of his friends can come and I want him to see some of his own color there.”

Mr. Piesie asked me to round up a white guy and a couple white friends and show up to the ceremony at the Accra Metropolitan Assembly Saturday morning at 9am. He asked that I dress nice because he would like me to be a witness for the marriage certificate signing. “.. and something African would be nice,” he added.

Unfortunately, the only Caucasian guy I came to Accra with was out of town for the weekend.. so I asked my roommate Sandra to come along. As per the request of the Father of the Bride, we had African print dresses made and showed up to the AMA Saturday morning.

Now let me stop her to emphasize how strange it is to be invited to an intimate ceremony for a couple, and family I’ve never met. The even stranger part to me was how warmly Sandra and I were welcomed.

We walked into the courtyard at the AMA and were hugged, kissed on the cheek and thanked profusely. Then we posed for wedding pictures with the couple and the bride’s parents and friends, and proceeded into the registrar to seal the deal.

Unfortunately for us, the system for legal marriages in Accra is one where the groom scribbles his name onto a list on a piece of foolscap as early in the day as possible and then waits patiently for his name to be called. The ceremonies are reminiscent of what takes place at all night quickie chapels in Vegas. They are about 6 minutes each (yes, we timed them) and include a ring exchange, quick vows, witness signatures and kiss (sometimes).

Throughout our 5 and a half hour wait, we watched the process at least 50 times.

In the end though, the wait was well worth it, and it gave us a chance to get to know the couple for which we were signing.

Imbre is Hungarian, but met Serwaa in England while they were both working there. When Serwaa’s Visa expired she had to return to Ghana. The couple has spent the last 14 months apart. They were reunited 2 days before their wedding. They plan to live together in England as soon as Serwaa can get her visa. Sandra and I were very taken by them. They are cute and playful with each other and obviously very happy to finally get to the point where a life together, in the same country, is in the foreseeable future.

Their ceremony was as speedy as the 50+ before them. Then the witnesses were called up one by one to sign the certificate and make it official. Everyone clapped and that was that. We headed outside for more pictures.

Afterwards we celebrated their union at the family house with Jollof Rice and chicken, Heineken and dancing.

Neither Sandra nor I have ever been witness to anyone’s marriage before but this experience, and I for one can say I never expected to be asked to perform the honor based on the fact that I am white. It may seem a bit strange… but it was obvious our presence meant a lot to the family as well as the bridge and groom.

Besides having my eyes opened to the formalities of Ghanian unions, I learned that if you really want to get to know someone, spend 5 hours in a registry office with them and then write your name on the marriage certificate!

I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with the newlyweds since their union and have found 2 lovely friends out of the experience.

Signing the marriage certificate at the Accra Metropolitan Assembly.

Ga people Hoot at Hunger

Leave a reply

In a country steeped in ancient tradition- festivals and celebrations are pretty well the norm in Accra. It seems the people of Ghana will take any opportunity they can to throw a party.

Recently Homowo was celebrated in the streets of James Town, Accra. The Ga people celebrate abundance each year through the  festival which translates to “hoot at hunger”.

The 3 day celebration is a harvest festival, started after a terrible famine plagued the clan as it’s people migrated to Accra. The shortage inspired farmers to grow crops in abundance and store what was left. Since then the Ga people have marked each plentiful year with Homowo.

The weekend was celebrated with dancing and drinking in the streets along with a parade down alleyways and main roads to celebrate the chief. Traditional food and drink were in abundance- much of it was poured on the streets as an offering to the gods.

Aside from all the chaos, tucked away in a family home. A private blessing ceremony was taking place.

Myself and 2 other JHR interns were invited in to participate. The ritual blessed Ga ancestors and Kin as well as those in atendance.

I felt the sights and sounds of the ceremony couldn’t be captured in words, so I took my video camera along…

Cheryl Oates drinks schnapps as part of a Ga blessing ceremony during Homowo.

Single In Accra

1 Reply
“Are you married?”

It’s the questions I have become accustomed to hearing everytime I hop into a taxi alone in Accra.

“No- I’m not married” I tell the driver- which usually sparks a debate over my life plans and goals that spans that entirety of my journey to work/home.

It doesn’t stop at marriage though. As soon as I tell the driver that in fact, I’m not married and that I don’t have any plans to be married any time soon, the conversation turns to babies. Don’t I want to “born one child before I’m too old?”

In fact- I do find the idea of children quite endearing… but not now.

I tell the driver I’m only 25, and I have lots of time to have children. This would be an acceptable ending to this intrusive conversation in Canada, but here in Accra it is only the beginning. For the next number of blocks the driver tries to convince me that now is the time for kids and that if I wait, I will be too old and no one will want me. There are usually a sprinkling of propositions thrown into this argument- “I can take care of you.. I will rent you one bedroom- self contained”… “please- I want one white baby”.

According to a recent study out of the UK, the average age  women here in Ghana marry is twenty. There is a huge importance attached to having children and preserving the family line and marriage is held in the highest regard. Unmarried women are considered to have lower status than their married counterparts.
This traditional view on marriage is almost comical when compared to some views at home in Canada, where a growing number of 20-somethings hold women’s independence and success above their ability to find a husband. The latest Stats Canada study shows the average age Canadian women marry is 28.5.
Although at first I was put off by “the baby conversation” during my morning commute, I now find it entertaining.The debate usually continue until I’m standing on the street.. passing him the agreed upon fare and wishing him a good day. 
Two of my female colleagues at a local TV station continue to encourage me that when I find a driver  who can offers  me 5 bedrooms.. I should definitely take him up. As of now.. my best offer is 2.