I really thought it was typical
harassment, no big deal. But
then
the junior officer ordered me and
my film crew to get
out of the boat, a step in the Nigerian military checkpoint routine
we’d never experienced before. As we climbed up a rusted chain,
residents were pulling up and dropping off cases of bottled water as
“gifts,” aka the toll to pass by without incident on the river. The
soldiers sell it to nearby village residents—a creative way of
requiring bribes without exchanging cash.
We were in the Niger Delta of Nigeria, to continue filming for
Sweet Crude, a documentary chronicling the devastating effects
of oil production in the region—specifically, the systematic
theft of vast oil riches from under the feet of a population now living
in abject poverty and environmental decimation. On the day we were
ordered out of the boat, we were traveling to a small village called
Egbema to film a woman who can no longer fish in waters that have fed
her family for over 70 years. Ironically, this area is one of the few
that has experienced relatively little of the environmental damage that
oil production has caused in most of the delta. Until recently, the
area had been spared by the luck of the draw—this part of the
river had just not been dredged yet. But now, the bunkering—in
which oil stolen from cracked pipes is placed on renegade
tankers—has overtaken this corridor of the river. Massive oil
spills are an everyday occurrence. It is commonly known that the
Nigerian military’s Joint Task Force (JTF) is complicit in the
bunkering; the huge tankers must clear their official checkpoints both
coming and going.
I’ll never know why the JTF stopped us. We were clearly a ragtag
group of Americans—hardly an upscale boat of oil-company
executives or anyone of means or importance. Were they actually looking
for us? We didn’t have our cameras out of the bag at the time. But to
the JTF, any Americans knowing details of the abuses in the delta are a
danger, particularly if they’re savvy to the Nigerian military’s
involvement in bunkering, kidnapping, and garden-variety crime. The
military blames all illicit activity on the militants—MEND
(Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta)—and the United
States seems to buy that line. Any official statements regarding the
situation in the Niger Delta are riddled with concern about the
“criminal” militancy, some even suggesting that they are terrorists.
The U.S. supports the Nigerian military against this insurgency with
hardware and military intelligence. MEND does have criminal elements,
but is also a political resistance movement. I have found no official
State Department expression of concern for the root causes of the
unrest.
For two and a half years, I’ve been chronicling the protracted
struggle for justice for the Niger Delta as it shifts toward a more
urgent conflict. As the oil companies’ extraction methods continue to
ravage the environment and the Nigerian government continues to
“divert” funds dedicated for development, the Nigerian military has
deployed troops to occupy the villages and contain the resistance. This
situation has drawn paltry media attention. Since the nonviolent
activist Ken Saro-Wiwa was executed in 1995, the only stories about the
delta you’ll find in mainstream media involve MEND kidnapping oil
workers. (Unfortunately, the militants’ shift from political demands to
violent tactics worked best in terms of getting them media
coverage.)
But in all our time here, the military has only ever stopped us to
give us a hard time, and it had never taken more than a bit of cheeky
dialogue and a playful refusal to pay (we followed the lead of our
Nigerian friends) before we were on our way. Since the Nigerian
government is pretty friendly with the U.S., it seemed logical enough
that we’d worked in the region without serious incident.
This time the situation escalated quickly. First we were told that
we were being held at the checkpoint for our own safety—maybe
they thought we were being kidnapped? (This is hard to believe, since
they never asked if any of us were concerned about the Nigerian man
accompanying us, and we gave off no “I am so relieved that you just
saved me from being kidnapped!” vibes.) After the safety excuse
expired, we were told we could only continue to travel on the river
with a paid military escort, which no responsible filmmaker would ever
do—it would place the villagers in jeopardy and we’d be in
greater danger for being seen with the JTF. Every hurdle the checkpoint
officers presented for holding us in custody was overcome: passports,
visas, visa applications, etc. But each time we overcame a hurdle, it
was replaced by a new pretend reason for holding us. It was
chilling.
While the crew and I were placed in the commanding officer’s
quarters—where, in a bizarre twist, a TV played softcore
porn—officers and security personnel outside determined our fate.
I tried to negotiate our way out of the situation, loudly and upfront,
while my production coordinator, Tammi Sims, quietly sent text messages
to our contact in the U.S., Leslye Wood, to let her know we might have
a problem.
There is a basic principle in any military situation: The orders
soldiers have given you hold until their superior officers pass along
new orders. So, if you’re allowed to talk to each other, eat, reach in
your bag, or use your phone, you do it like crazy before the game
changes. My cinematographers, Sean Porter and Cliff Worsham, were
“rearranging” their bags for anything that would be considered
“evidence.” My crew was amazingly calm, smart, and brave. In the few
hours we had to do it, we destroyed DVDs, smart cards, tapes, notes,
and a camera. In short, everything that could get us convicted of
“espionage” and anything that could be used against the people who had
worked with us in Nigeria. (Documenting the crisis in the Niger Delta
is considered dangerous by the Nigerian government.) Destroying
“evidence” was the right thing to do, but devastating nonetheless.
It is a heady concept to be seized at gunpoint, and it’s compounded
when you feel responsible for the Nigerians who have trusted
you—the ones in your notes and on your footage.
Unfortunately, I knew that the State Security Services (SSS) were
renowned for fabricating evidence, abusing Nigerian journalists, and
detaining people indefinitely without charges. As we were being driven
from one military base to another, I was seated next to the SSS
commander. He was on the phone with his boss when I overheard the words
“arrest number” and “charge is sabotage.”
Oh my god.
Since we still had our cell phones, I called Tammi, who was in
another car, to tell her what I had heard. I had to call rather than
furtively send a text because my polarized prescription sunglasses
rendered the screen illegible, but without them I was virtually blind.
But it was time to tell our U.S.-based team to get us some serious
help. So I looked right at the SSS commander and dialed. His knowing
smile as I spoke is one of the eerie images I can’t shake. In the other
car, Tammi turned to Cliff and said, “How do you spell sabotage?” Even
under stress, she is an impeccable texter.
They drove the five of us (four filmmakers and our Nigerian guide
and friend Joel Bisina) from Warri to Abuja—a dangerous
eight-and-a-half-hour drive in trucks with six armed soldiers per
vehicle. It was hard to decide if I wanted the drive to end or hoped it
would continue forever, since I had no idea what awaited us. I was
haunted by thoughts of every prison or torture movie I had ever seen.
Damn that Midnight Express, Papillon, and Death
and the Maiden.
We asked if we could listen to music on our iPods (to help with our
nerves and to burn out the batteries since we had video clips on them
we did not want the SSS to find). Huddled in the back, three of us
shared one set of headphones while Tammi played DJ. I have never been
so happy to hear the Dixie Chicks in my life. Along with Natalie
Maines’s “Truth No. 2″—”You don’t like the sound of the truth
coming from my mouth”—came the Pretenders’ “Revolution,” a
long-standing ’80s favorite for iconoclasts in the time of Michael
Milken and Wall Street greed: “Bring on the revolution, I wanna die for
something.” But Tammi started by spinning slow comforting songs,
including an old spiritual hymn featuring harmonies from my closest
friend. It literally made that harrowing ride bearable. It’s an iMix
that no one wants to need, but we will be forever grateful for having
had it.
We would spend the next week detained by the SSS in Abuja, Nigeria,
never charged or officially arrested. We weren’t physically harmed,
just uncomfortable and very scared. Our quarters could have been worse,
but hardly matched the “hotel-like” environment described to our
families by the State Department though they never saw our rooms. I was
held in a room with a flea-ridden mattress, with no air conditioner or
fan in a 100-degree environment (a condition that changed after 14
lawmakers stepped up for us). I had sporadic access to food and water.
The lack of water was the hardest part. I am struck by and a little
embarrassed at how quickly I felt weak and a bit broken in there.
At one point, after sleeping for two hours, I was woken for
interrogation. I was questioned four times total—once for six
hours. A constant feature of interrogation is the fear of what might
come if I failed to give them what they wanted, though I never knew
what that actually was. I tried to think of some of the questions as
really bad moments from film-fest audience Q&As, just to keep my
sanity—it helped. Had it not been for the constant low-grade
terror that they would switch tactics to violence, I would have found
some of it interesting. Now I can only remember how horrible my own
fear smells. It haunts me to think about people who do jobs where they
smell other peoples’ fear every day. What I can tell you is that
intimidation yields bad information. I could not remember basic details
that I had no reason to hide.
I used to make that point about torture in political arguments with
friends. Many things that were once philosophical are now physical. A
member of my family said, “What kind of a country detains someone
without charges, who cannot see a lawyer, whom they know is not a real
security threat—just to send a message, just to intimidate them,
what kind of country?” Well, the United States for one, in addition to
Nigeria and countless others. Illegal detention is a blight on our
collective soul and has to end. And if anyone being detained
is a real criminal, let’s hear the evidence and bring him or
her to justice. Even one hour held against your will when you’re
innocent is a terrible burden, let alone the years many have faced.
We were picked up by the military on a river in Nigeria for reasons
I’ll never fully know. Once they Googled the film title and my name, we
were held because the old-guard military in Nigeria does not want this
story told. They were open about this. Had I been filming only
militants in masks with guns—an image that supports the narrative
the Nigerian government wants disseminated—I believe my crew and
I would have walked. The truth is that people living in this region
have been ripped off and left for dead for half a century. It’s a
pressing political issue and requires long-term preventive diplomacy,
not more AFRICOM troops from the Pentagon. Okay, not sexy as approaches
go, but it’s what has a shot at averting another African travesty.
Ironically, the only footage the SSS confiscated from us was the
“peaceful solutions” footage—the “hope” footage, intended to
round out the film with a vision for a just Niger Delta past peak
oil.
It was only because 14 U.S. lawmakers, led by Senator Maria
Cantwell, and countless others in the community advocated courageously
that we were released as quickly as we were. As we flew out of the
country, I read that the price of oil had reached an all-time high. But
I knew that for the first time in my life I had paid the true price of
oil. For one week, my crew and I had been denied our freedom and every
other basic right so that those in power could control that natural
resource with impunity. Here at home, we have abdicated all moral
authority to do the same. Hopefully, those U.S. lawmakers who signed a
letter on our behalf will use this tiny moment of attention to address
the real issues of oil, not just the price of gas. For a start, push
for third-party international mediation in the Niger Delta. If they do,
our detention was just fine. If they do not, it was awful. 
Sandy CIoffi is a Seattle filmmaker. For more information on the film and the Niger Delta, see www.sweetcrudemovie.com.