'Terrible tragedies begin with small acts of betrayal’

Aminatta Forna, a British writer of Sierra Leonean and Scottish heritage, won the 2011 Commonwealth Prize and was nominated for the Orange Prize for her latest novel, The Memory Of Love. In an interview with The Mag, she talks about love, war and how it tests relationships. Excerpts:

In times of conflict, such as the civil unrest in Sierra Leone against which your book, The Memory Of Love is set, how do positive emotions such as ‘love’ and ‘friendship’ turn sour?
Times of crisis are when people are tested in many ways. Friendships are tested, flaws are revealed, old enmities or grudges can be played out in a new theatre and with greater consequences. War creates opportunities which are not available to us in ordinary lives, giving power to those who may not have had it and creating powerlessness in others. When Kai compares the memory of Nenebah’s love to the memory of pain — that of ‘phantom pain’ experienced by people who have lost limbs (forced amputations characterised the Sierra Leone civil war) — he is actually comparing it to something real. Doctors working with patients suffering ‘phantom pain’ now recognise the pain as real, because pain is felt in the brain. If the pain is real, Kai’s love is real. Also people who have experienced war have very strong memories of what their country was like before the war. They live a great deal in the past, because the past was a time of happiness.

In your earlier works, women took a central role, but here they are the objects of affection — like Saffia — or the site of insanity — like Agnes. What did women in such scenarios represent to you?
As women per se they don’t represent anything. Agnes’ sex is relevant to her dilemma because as a woman it is harder for her to escape the situation. I wrote one book in which women played a central role and that is Ancestor Stones. I saw the family as the state and the women as the individuals. In The Memory Of Love, I wanted to explore how terrible tragedies begin with small acts of betrayal. Friendship was at the core of the book: that of Julius and Elias and Kai and Adrian. Plus, just as Agnes’ vulnerability makes it hard for her to leave, as an elderly woman on her own and without any other family, so men have more power than women in any society I can think of.

You have written about the insufficiency and helplessness of external aid. Where do you think is the meeting point for wartime situations and the people who wish to aid?
I think if people in the West want to help they can do so in many ways before a situation reaches crisis point. Poor countries need an economy more than they need armies of NGO ‘consultants’. When people ask what they can do to help, I tell them: “Switch your investment funds to Emerging Markets (Africa).” If you can’t do that, then lobby your government to open European and American markets to African countries. All that would be a lot more use than another aid project. But, as we see with Adrian in The Memory Of Love, the reasons individuals want to help are complex and various and rooted in the circumstances of their own lives.

You have spoken about the ‘renaissance generation’, the learned generation of the sixties. What are your observations on the current generation — are they insulated or exposed?
The Renaissance in Africa, of course, never happened. The Sixties was a time of hope and a certain innocence worldwide. I am not sure we could ever go back there. Sadly, most young people in poor countries just want to get out — so many young men apply for the Green Card Lottery. However, in Sierra Leone, I meet just enough young people devoted to the thing they do to give me hope. I have a friend there, one of two government paediatricians. Recently the infant mortality rate dropped dramatically, largely due to his 20 years’ work. He has had little or no outside assistance in all that time. I said to him, you must feel so proud. He had not thought about it in that way. He said, “I suppose, yes, I do.” His name is Donald Bash Taqi. Sierra Leone is a place where miracles can still be made.

You have been critical of financial aid to Africa. According to you, how has such aid helped or harmed African countries in the past?
Helping is not the main purpose of aid. The true purpose is political allegiance. As they say, countries don’t have friends, they have interests. Aid is tied to all kinds of deals and concessions, but it doesn’t come free to the developing country. It comes at a price. In many ways, the whole game is a deeply cynical one.

Given your writing on the topic, as well as the aid you personally work on in the country, how has your understanding of the crisis and the people involved changed your life?
I have seen, demonstrated in every way, that democracy requires eternal vigilance and we are all responsible for the society we live in, whether our own small village or the global village.