Dust Roads and Digital Hope: My Visit to the Oslo Amputee Camp
By Andrew Benson Greene
The motorbike jolted forward as we turned onto a dusty, narrow road leading to the Oslo Amputee Camp—five miles outside Makeni, in the north of Sierra Leone. It was Friday, December 9, 2011. The harmattan wind was dry and thin, curling around the red earth and into our faces. Behind me sat two volunteers from my organization, B-Gifted, our backpacks filled with printed materials, photographs, and stories of recognition from the International Telecommunication Union (ITU) Awards—news we hoped would inspire a community that had already known too much loss.
I was returning not just as a visitor, but as someone bringing word that the world had noticed their struggle—and that, through technology, their voices could finally travel beyond the camp’s boundaries. Our mission was simple yet profound: to introduce a community ICT access center that would connect amputees of the civil war to the digital world.
The camp itself was modest but orderly—a scattering of white and blue houses built by a Norwegian NGO. Each small home had a patch of garden lined with low shrubs. The residents, mostly men and women who had lost limbs during Sierra Leone’s brutal eleven-year conflict, lived here rent-free. But though the war had ended almost a decade earlier, peace had not brought equality.
In Sierra Leone, even for those capable of working, prejudice often runs deeper than injury. Many amputees are still refused jobs, pushed to the margins, or left to depend on handouts. Some are skilled carpenters, farmers, or mechanics; others dye fabrics or carve wood. Yet without access to markets—or even basic tools of communication—their work remains unseen, their talent unvalued.
When I arrived, the community gathered beneath the shade of a large mango tree. I spoke of what the ITU Award represented—not just a recognition of innovation, but a promise that the digital divide could be bridged, even here. The chairman of the Oslo Camp, himself an amputee, spoke first. His voice carried both gratitude and quiet defiance:
“Thank you for creating this opportunity,” he said. “For giving us a way to make our voices heard.”
Mohamed, a student from Makeni, echoed him:
“The challenges we face are huge. Nobody seems to have time for us—not even the government. But with these technologies, we will share our voices, so others will know our plight.”
Another amputee, Archippus T. Sesay, lifted his crutch and smiled faintly.
“Many people believe helping us is a waste of time,” he said. “But with these technologies, we can prove them wrong. We can tell our own stories, in our own words.”
Those words stayed with me.
From the time peace was declared in 2002, Sierra Leone has struggled to rebuild. Over 50,000 lives were lost, thousands were maimed, and countless others displaced. We are still ranked among the world’s poorest nations, our recovery fragile and slow. But what struck me most that day was not the poverty—it was the isolation. The amputees were not just cut off from economic opportunity; they were cut off from the modern world of information, from connection itself.
As I listened, I realized that this project was not just about computers, digital cameras, audio devices or connectivity—it was about dignity. For these men and women, access to ICT meant access to identity. It meant reclaiming a voice that war and discrimination had taken away.
I told them:
“In a nation already burdened with hardship, we cannot allow those who suffered most to remain unseen. The disability of the amputee must no longer be a distant notion—it is part of our shared humanity. We must carry it close to our hearts and act.”
Their faces lit with cautious hope. Some clapped. Others simply nodded, eyes glistening in the afternoon sun.
Before leaving, we signed a commitment between B-Gifted and the community of Oslo Camp to establish the ICT center. The amputees promised to safeguard the equipment and ensure that the space became a center of learning and empowerment. For them, this was not charity. It was partnership.
As we rode back toward Makeni, I thought about what Mohamed had said: that “nobody seems to have time for us.” His words echoed against the hum of the motorbike and the rhythm of the wind. In that moment, I understood that technology, at its best, is not about innovation—it is about inclusion.
These were not victims. They were survivors waiting for the world to listen.
When I founded B-Gifted Foundation, I believed that technology could be more than innovation — it could be healing. It could bridge the distance between isolation and inclusion, between silence and self-expression.
“In a nation already burdened with hardship, we cannot allow those who suffered most to remain unseen. The disability of the amputee must no longer be a distant notion—it is part of our shared humanity. We must carry it close to our hearts and act.”
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And so, I resolved that B-Gifted’s work would not just scratch the surface of their needs, but speak to the soul of what it means to rebuild: to turn digital access into human access, to make hope not a slogan but a system.
That day in Makeni, I did not just deliver news of an award. I carried back a reminder of why it mattered—because every click, every connection, every story shared online could become a bridge between brokenness and belonging.
That day in Makeni, I didn’t just see amputees. I saw architects of resilience — people who refused to let suffering have the last word.
That journey reminded me that innovation isn’t only about new tools; it’s about who gets to use them and for what purpose. Technology, at its best, is for the greater good, restores what war and injustice once took away — hope, voice, and belonging
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