Island of Instability

By JOHARY RAVALOSON

Antananarivo, Madagascar

IF I had written this a few days ago, I would have discussed the classic choice between legality and legitimacy, urging the return of a state of law. I would have concluded by calling for adherence to a peculiarly Madagascan concept, fihavanana, which places the highest good on maintaining existing social ties. But things here have taken an odd turn and I no longer know what to think.

This island nation became a country of two presidents and two governments at the end of January. That was when the 34-year-old mayor of Antananarivo, Andry Rajoelina, declared himself the head of a populist parallel government in opposition to Marc Ravalomanana, a self-made tycoon who had been president since 2002. And between the two presidents, we had a military that changed sides twice a week.

That was also when Antananarivo, whose name means “the place of 1,000 warriors,” became a city seemingly without law. Restraint and decorum disappeared from this capital of 1.5 million people. More than 100 people died in political violence. A city of 1,000 boutiques closed its doors and became a city of 1,000 garbage cans in the streets. The thousands of alleys and stairs linking the upper town on the hills and the lower town below were blocked by 1,000 barriers where 1,000 robbers lurked.

We learned to be careful about the colors of our clothing: orange is for the partisans of Mr. Rajoelina, blue and green for those of Mr. Ravalomanana. Wearing a suit and tie is too redolent of success and could arouse the anger of those who haven’t benefited from Madagascar’s growth. People sitting in their cars and listening to a radio station run by one camp were roughed up by members of the other. The other afternoon, a friend of mine out on an errand kept having to take refuge in the first open door she could find because of rampaging looters; one time she ended up in a Chinese restaurant filled with drunks. She no longer wants to leave her house.

March 17 was a red-letter date in the crisis. That day, I woke my children to get them ready for school. Schools had been closing unexpectedly, because of what happened during the night or what might happen during the day. I sent them anyway. It turned out to be a day with school.

As for me, I went to work. Our hours have been cut back since February, but I go every day as if everything were normal. I read the papers, then go onto the Internet to look at the help-wanted ads for jobs outside the country. That day, I had a mid-morning meeting. Before leaving, I called to confirm, because appointments get canceled when it’s too dangerous to go out. Then I had to figure out my route.

I had to avoid certain parts of town. At the 13th of May Square, there could be a demonstration by Rajoelina supporters. At the Mahamasina Square, a demonstration for Mr. Ravalomanana. Nor should I venture into the neighborhood where the government ministries are because there could be disturbances there, nor close to the military headquarters because there could have been another change in the leadership. I needed to avoid neighborhoods like 67 Ha, Ambanidia, Andraharo, Behoririka, where gangs of thugs ran wild, areas where there could be barricades.

As I traveled on my scooter, I could see either military policemen or self-proclaimed vigilantes at each intersection. In either case, you bargain, you pay, you pass or you make a detour — or maybe you’ve already made three or four detours and you can’t stand it anymore, so you force your way through. Thankfully, the worst you get is having shoes and insults thrown at you.

As I left my meeting, a friend sent me a text message saying that President Ravalomanana had resigned and handed over power to a commission made up of generals. The generals were then immediately arrested by mutinous colonels.

By the end of the afternoon, the generals had been released and had thrown their support to the young man of the 13th of May Square, Andry Rajoelina. The crisis seemed to be over. I should have been relieved.

Instead, I felt a sense of defeat, a hangover I didn’t understand. The next day, on my way to work, I didn’t see much joy in the streets. Despite the change in government, uncertainty persists.

And the fihavanana, you ask? How can we maintain the ancient ties when all the ancient values — respect for our elders, the spirit of moderation, the inclination for dialogue — have disappeared?

On Saturday, Mr. Rajoelina was sworn in as the interim president at Mahamasina, the big stadium where the Ravalomanana partisans once held sway, but also the place where the kings and queens of Madagascar once were crowned. Would they have thought that an official proclamation with a lot of capital letters and a ceremony at a sacred place would be enough to renew fihavanana? Since then, Mr. Ravalomanana’s supporters have been out in force protesting the change in government. Western countries have denounced it as a coup and have cut off aid.

After Mr. Ravalomanana stepped down, a friend sent an e-mail message warning me to beware of crocodile feasts. Translated: now the victors will divide the spoils.

What united demonstrators at the 13th of May Square behind Andry Rajoelina was discontent with the former president. With Mr. Ravalomanana gone, that unity will disappear. Madagascar is now surely in the belly of the crocodile.

Johary Ravaloson is a lawyer and novelist. This essay was translated by The Times from the French.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/26/opinion/26ravaloson.html?_r=1&ref=opinion