…Survivors’ Stories from the Liberian Civil War
The haunting echoes of war still reverberate through the lives of countless Liberians who survived the nation’s brutal civil conflict. Among them are voices that refuse to be silenced, voices that continue to call for justice.
Survivors are now urging President Joseph N. Boakai to take decisive steps toward the full establishment and operation of the War and Economic Crimes Court (WECC)—a long-awaited path toward accountability and healing.
One such voice belongs to Godgift Bloh, whose life was forever altered during the terrifying events of February 1994 in Bloe Town, Rivercess County. On that fateful day, rebels stormed the quiet town by afternoon, and the air quickly filled with panic. Around 500 civilians were slain, their lives cut short in a senseless wave of violence.
As chaos erupted, Bloh and her family scattered into the surrounding bush in a desperate attempt to flee. Her mother, clutching Bloh’s younger sibling, tried to find shelter. But their escape was short-lived. The rebels caught up with them. Godgift, just a child at the time, cried out in terror as she was seized. Her cries pierced through the dense forest, reaching her mother’s ears.
In an act of unimaginable courage and maternal instinct, Bloh’s mother turned back, determined to rescue her daughter. But tragedy awaited. As young Godgift watched helplessly, the rebels brutally killed her mother and baby sibling, murdering them before her eyes.
“My mother heard my cry in the bush as the rebels took me,” Bloh recalls. “She came in hoping to rescue me, but instead, the rebels killed her and my only surviving younger sibling while I watched.”
Barely a teenager when her world unraveled, Godgift Bloh found herself abducted by rebels and plunged into a reality no child should endure. Taken from her home during the chaos of Liberia’s civil war, she became a servant to the wife of a rebel leader—a twist of fate that, paradoxically, may have shielded her from further harm.
Confined to the dim basement quarters of the rebels, Bloh lived under constant fear. Yet, her position granted her limited freedom; she was occasionally allowed to move about, a rare and fragile privilege in such harrowing circumstances.
Eventually, she was relocated to a rebel camp in Buchanan, Grand Bassa County—a place just close enough to home to stir hope in her heart. Even within the camp’s grim confines, her duties as a servant permitted a degree of movement that kept her spirit from breaking entirely.
Then, as the intensity of the war momentarily waned, the window for escape cracked open. In a moment of quiet determination, Bloh walked away from the unaccompanied, unnoticed, and never looked back.
Though her heart carried the weight of losing her family, she pressed forward. Along the way, she encountered others from Rivercess County. Strangers at first, they became her guides, leading her back to the land of her childhood—a place marked by both devastation and an unyielding desire to heal.
Now, decades later, the pain remains raw. But survivors like Godgift Bloh stand resolute, demanding a future where such horrors are never repeated. Through the WECC, they seek not only justice, but also the recognition of their suffering—an acknowledgment of the loved ones lost, and a nation still healing.
Scars of Survival: Elizabeth Biamu’s Story of Pain and Perseverance
Similarly, Elizabeth Biamu, now in her late 60s, whose life was torn apart during the war, yet whose strength remains unshaken, also shares her experiences about her scars of survival, pain, and perseverance
Elizabeth was eight months pregnant when rebels stormed her community. What followed was a nightmare no mother should ever endure. “They killed my three children right in front of me,” she recounted. “Then they beat me so badly I started bleeding from my nose and ears. I lay there, thinking I was dying.”
Left for dead, Elizabeth regained consciousness in the stillness of the night. Wounded and alone, she crawled into the bush. And there, amidst the darkness and pain, she gave birth—alone—to twin babies. “There was no one,” she said softly, her voice catching. “Just me and my newborns under the trees.”
At dawn, a friend searching through the forest came upon Elizabeth and her babies. Gently, she helped carry her to a hidden gathering of women also in flight from the violence. These women, themselves scarred by war, became her lifeline.
“They rubbed pepper on my skin and massaged me every day,” Elizabeth said through tears. “I was bleeding inside from the beatings, but they helped me heal as best they could.”
She paused, wiped away her tears, then continued with a quiver in her voice. “To this day, sometimes my body aches from what I endured. That pain never really leaves.”
Despite her unimaginable strength, tragedy didn’t loosen its grip. Her twins, born into turmoil, didn’t live long enough to grow up, to know the mother who bore them in agony to give them life. Today, Elizabeth survives with two children—one born after the war, a living testament to her will to go on.
Faith, Loss, and Survival: The Story of Annie Goe
At 96 years old, Annie Goe carries with her the weight of profound loss and the strength of survival. Once a mother to five children, she lost two of them—and her husband—when armed rebels descended upon a sanctuary in Behn Town, Grand Bassa County.
It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1993, when chaos engulfed the African Gospel Church, a haven for Internally Displaced Persons. More than 700 people from across Liberia had gathered there, seeking shelter from the relentless violence of the civil war. But instead of protection, they met brutality. The rebels launched a devastating attack, and the victims were buried in a mass grave just behind the church’s walls.
Annie survived—but her journey through the war was riddled with hardship. During the frantic escape from gunfire and flames, she sustained several injuries that still trouble her today. With no time to grieve and nowhere to go, she turned to what she knew: the land. Through cassava farming, she managed to keep herself alive in the aftermath of war.
Yet, life after conflict has been unforgiving. The injuries her body suffered during those desperate days have made her twilight years painful and difficult. Still, she endures.
A Nation Remembers: Dedicating Memorials to Liberia’s Civil War Victims
In the quiet towns of Behn and Bloe, where echoes of the past linger in the air, the pain of the civil war still lives on in the hearts of survivors. But on June 17 and 18, a new chapter began—a moment when remembrance took form in stone and memory.
With the support of the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), the Independent National Commission on Human Rights (INCHR) unveiled a series of nine memorials across the country, each built on sites where massacres and mass burials once took place.
These solemn monuments stand not only as tributes to the victims of the Liberian civil war but also as symbols of healing, ownership, and peace.
In Behn Town, Grand Bassa County, and Bloe Town in Rivercess County, community members gathered around the newly constructed memorials.
Some wept quietly; others stood in silence, absorbing the weight of history now marked in marble and soil. These were no ordinary ceremonies—they were dedications of collective memory.
“This is a sad but meaningful day,” said Esther A. Logan, Rivercess County Development Officer, her voice steady despite the emotion in the crowd. “Our people’s pain is finally recognized. Their lives mattered.”
The ceremony marked an important step in fulfilling Recommendation 17.0 of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), which calls for reparations and the memorialization of those lost.
By transferring these memorials into the hands of the affected communities, the INCHR and UNDP aimed to give survivors a place of reflection and a piece of their history returned.
Louis Kuukpen, UNDP’s Deputy Resident Representative, described the initiative as a “source of solace and healing,” emphasizing that the memorials offer more than remembrance—they provide an opportunity for communities to grieve, honor the fallen, and rebuild a shared identity.
Marion Deniaud of the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) reaffirmed international support for justice and human rights in Liberia.
As the sun cast its soft light over the newly unveiled memorial in Behn Town, Grand Bassa County, survivors and community leaders gathered to reflect on one of the darkest chapters of Liberia’s civil war. Among them was Pastor Amos Banwrehn of the African Gospel Church, who offered a sobering account of the violence that unfolded.
Pastor Banwrehn recalled that the roots of the horror stretched back to 1989, when the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL) launched a campaign of terror across the country.
Although the violence fluctuated, August 1993 marked a new surge of brutality. That was when the Liberia Peace Council (LPC) was established. It was an armed group that, according to Banwrehn, would become one of the deadliest during the conflict. He described their attacks as the “worst of all,” leaving a trail of destruction behind.
In December 1993, the NPFL reemerged in Behn Town, launching another attack that devastated the population. Behind the African Gospel Church, where people had once gathered in prayer and hope, a mass grave was quickly dug. Hundreds of victims—men, women, and children—were buried there, their lives cut short amid the chaos.
Standing at the monument now erected near that location, Pastor Banwrehn expressed heartfelt gratitude to the Independent National Commission on Human Rights (INCHR) and the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) for their contribution to establishing the memorial. “It will always stand as a symbol,” he stated, “a reminder of the lives lost and the suffering endured.”
Also present was Mercy Geeco, a resident of Bloe Town in neighboring Rivercess County. Her voice trembled as she shared her painful connection to the tragedy—she had lost eight brothers in the same attack. “Preparing for this day was not easy,” she admitted. “It meant reliving every moment, every loss.” Yet she stood strong in her resolve, offering her heartfelt thanks to INCHR and UNDP for preserving the history, grief, and resilience of the survivors.
Five of the memorials now stand in Grand Bassa, Rivercess, Lofa, Gbarpolu, and Bong Counties.
Each honors individuals who died under tragic circumstances or were buried in makeshift graves during the war that tore the nation apart between 1989 and 2003—a conflict that claimed approximately 250,000 lives, according to the Center for Justice and Accountability.
And yet, in these memorials, there is more than grief. There is courage. There is memory. And there is hope.
