Review
“Samantha Nutt is scrupulously consistent with her hard-nosed, direct, in-your-face style and defiant resolve in her approach to war and the massive abuses to humanity, especially women and children. Samantha is telling us in no uncertain terms that humanitarianism starts by a 'critical reflection concerning our own actions and deeds.' And then she offers some solid proposals to consider. Well done, in a most compelling of ways."
—LGen the Hon. Roméo A. Dallaire, (Ret’d), Senator
"This is an extraordinarily riveting book. The anecdotes are heart-wrenching; the analysis is trenchant, principled, uncompromising. I never read a book in one sitting: I read Damned Nations in one sitting, and I regretted that it came to an end. It's not an easy read, but it's filled with emotional and intellectual power."
—Stephen Lewis, former Canadian Ambassador to the United Nations, and Chair of the Board of the Stephen Lewis Foundation
“This book is a passionate reaction to so much of the stupidity and calumny that leads to death and destruction, and yet, it incorporates insightful and cool headed reasons as to why. An important book for our times.”
—Lloyd Axworthy, President, University of Winnipeg and former Minister of Foreign Affairs
“A brave, eloquent, and necessary book.”
–Lewis Lapham, editor of Lapham’s Quarterly
“When I first met Sam, I was moved by her total and single minded dedication to justice. She thought of people in far away places the way we think of relatives in disadvantage, and she behaved like we do at our best when we care enough to do something. I have no doubt you will be moved by her stories and her work, but I hope most of all, by her example.”
—K’Naan
"This is an extraordinary book. From its opening scenes, my heart was in my throat. Samantha Nutt is a genuine hero for all of us who want to make a difference in the world. She has helped those who, through no fault of their own, find themselves trapped in terrifying conditions of terror, injustice, oppression and extreme poverty. All of us living in the comfort and affluence of industrialized countries owe it to the rest of humanity to read this powerful book."
—David Suzuki, co-founder, The David Suzuki Foundation, and Professor Emeritus, University of British Columbia
“Samantha Nutt drives us to the front lines of an ongoing conflict between empathy and barbarism. Her words, and the lessons she asks us to heed, come from what she herself has witnessed. The passion that Dr. Nutt has for the important work she does is reflected in the pages of this remarkable book.”
—Seamus O’Regan, co-host, Canada AM
"Dr. Nutt movingly outlines the chilling truth about war and offers us a rare, poignant glimpse into each individual's part in the process to attainable peace. An absolute must-read for every person in the developed world, and a manual for every leader."
—Chantal Kreviazuk, Juno Award-winning performer and songwriter, and Honorary Founder, War Child
“Dr. Samantha Nutt is a force of nature. A courageous and tireless advocate for human rights. Damned Nations exposes the 'underbelly' of the humanitarian movement. Her colorful, revealing and heart-wrenching first-hand accounts are a must read for anyone who’s given so much as a penny to an NGO.”
—Raine Maida, lead singer, Our Lady Peace, songwriter, and activist
—LGen the Hon. Roméo A. Dallaire, (Ret’d), Senator
"This is an extraordinarily riveting book. The anecdotes are heart-wrenching; the analysis is trenchant, principled, uncompromising. I never read a book in one sitting: I read Damned Nations in one sitting, and I regretted that it came to an end. It's not an easy read, but it's filled with emotional and intellectual power."
—Stephen Lewis, former Canadian Ambassador to the United Nations, and Chair of the Board of the Stephen Lewis Foundation
“This book is a passionate reaction to so much of the stupidity and calumny that leads to death and destruction, and yet, it incorporates insightful and cool headed reasons as to why. An important book for our times.”
—Lloyd Axworthy, President, University of Winnipeg and former Minister of Foreign Affairs
“A brave, eloquent, and necessary book.”
–Lewis Lapham, editor of Lapham’s Quarterly
“When I first met Sam, I was moved by her total and single minded dedication to justice. She thought of people in far away places the way we think of relatives in disadvantage, and she behaved like we do at our best when we care enough to do something. I have no doubt you will be moved by her stories and her work, but I hope most of all, by her example.”
—K’Naan
"This is an extraordinary book. From its opening scenes, my heart was in my throat. Samantha Nutt is a genuine hero for all of us who want to make a difference in the world. She has helped those who, through no fault of their own, find themselves trapped in terrifying conditions of terror, injustice, oppression and extreme poverty. All of us living in the comfort and affluence of industrialized countries owe it to the rest of humanity to read this powerful book."
—David Suzuki, co-founder, The David Suzuki Foundation, and Professor Emeritus, University of British Columbia
“Samantha Nutt drives us to the front lines of an ongoing conflict between empathy and barbarism. Her words, and the lessons she asks us to heed, come from what she herself has witnessed. The passion that Dr. Nutt has for the important work she does is reflected in the pages of this remarkable book.”
—Seamus O’Regan, co-host, Canada AM
"Dr. Nutt movingly outlines the chilling truth about war and offers us a rare, poignant glimpse into each individual's part in the process to attainable peace. An absolute must-read for every person in the developed world, and a manual for every leader."
—Chantal Kreviazuk, Juno Award-winning performer and songwriter, and Honorary Founder, War Child
“Dr. Samantha Nutt is a force of nature. A courageous and tireless advocate for human rights. Damned Nations exposes the 'underbelly' of the humanitarian movement. Her colorful, revealing and heart-wrenching first-hand accounts are a must read for anyone who’s given so much as a penny to an NGO.”
—Raine Maida, lead singer, Our Lady Peace, songwriter, and activist
Book Description
For readers of Christopher Hedges, Robert Fisk, and Christopher Hitchens, an extraordinary humanitarian gives us a bracing and uncompromising account of her work in some of the most devastated corners of the world -- and a new and provocative vision for changing course on our growing militarization.
In 1995, twenty-five-year-old Samantha Nutt, a recent medical-school graduate and a field volunteer for UNICEF, touched down in Baidoa, Somalia, "the City of Death." What she saw there -- gangs of young men roaming the streets armed with rocket launchers; a woman in a clinic line holding a dead baby; an aid agency working in such an unsafe environment that its workers had to travel with armed escorts high on drugs -- would spur her on to a lifetime of passionate advocacy for children and families in war-torn areas around the world. Damned Nations is the brilliant distillation of Dr. Nutt's observations over the course of fifteen years providing hands-on care in some of the world's most violent flashpoints, all the while building the world class non-profit War Child North America. Combining original research with her personal story, it is a deeply thoughtful meditation on war as it is being waged around the world against millions of civilians -- primarily women and children. Nutt's boundless energy, dedication, and compassion shine through on every page as she lays out real, lasting solutions to these problems and shows how to move beyond outdated notions of charity towards a more progressive, inclusive, and respectful world view.
In 1995, twenty-five-year-old Samantha Nutt, a recent medical-school graduate and a field volunteer for UNICEF, touched down in Baidoa, Somalia, "the City of Death." What she saw there -- gangs of young men roaming the streets armed with rocket launchers; a woman in a clinic line holding a dead baby; an aid agency working in such an unsafe environment that its workers had to travel with armed escorts high on drugs -- would spur her on to a lifetime of passionate advocacy for children and families in war-torn areas around the world. Damned Nations is the brilliant distillation of Dr. Nutt's observations over the course of fifteen years providing hands-on care in some of the world's most violent flashpoints, all the while building the world class non-profit War Child North America. Combining original research with her personal story, it is a deeply thoughtful meditation on war as it is being waged around the world against millions of civilians -- primarily women and children. Nutt's boundless energy, dedication, and compassion shine through on every page as she lays out real, lasting solutions to these problems and shows how to move beyond outdated notions of charity towards a more progressive, inclusive, and respectful world view.
About the Author
SAMANTHA NUTT, M.D. is a medical doctor and Founder/Executive Director of War Child North America. For fifteen years, Dr Nutt has been at the frontline of many of the world's major crises -- from Iraq to Afghanistan, Somalia to the Congo and Sierra Leone to Darfur. Dr. Nutt was recently named one of Canada's 25 Transformational Canadians by the Globe and Mail, and the World Economic Forum recognized her as one of 200 young global leaders. In 2010, Samantha was awarded the Order of Ontario. Dr. Nutt is a staff physician at Women's College Hospital in Toronto and an Assistant Professor of medicine at the University of Toronto.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
When war returned to Bukavu, in the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo along the Rwandan border, I dismissed the gunfire as nothing more than a minor skirmish. A peace accord had been signed eighteen months earlier by most of the fractured parties to this hellish conflict. Had no one read it? Maybe, I reasoned, it was just a group of boys not quite satisfied with the terms of their severance from one of the ever-shifting rebel groups. This isn’t serious. It will pass. During my previous mission to the region a few months earlier, there had been hushed chatter among aid workers of a “third revolution,” but war zones are full of such stories – of final chapters in battle not yet written. And, by all accounts, the rumours predated the peace process, so there was no need for concern. There were 10,000 United Nations peacekeepers in the region, and I was confident it wouldn’t take them long to identify the problem and contain it.
I was travelling with a documentary crew, gathering footage for an hour-long feature on the Congo’s devastating war. Our team was set to leave the next day, so I returned to my room at the Orchid Hotel – a Belgian-run auberge on the sluggish shores of Lake Kivu – and continued packing. Half of our crew, which included my husband, Eric Hoskins, had not yet returned from filming. I did not expect to hear these words at my door: “Sam, Eric’s been detained. Security officials are holding him and the rest of the team at the police station, and have confiscated their passports and equipment. They want to see our footage.” Eric was negotiating for the others to be released after they were stopped for filming in the streets, and was offering himself up as collateral until the officials obtained what they wanted. We had UN permission to film, and this kind of brazen harassment of independent witnesses with camera gear is too often the prelude to atrocity. It was only then that I realized the gunfire we were hearing was a call to arms.
I made a list of discrete tasks: grab a few tapes of footage unlikely to be deemed sensitive and whatever cash we had left; call our contacts at the UN; and, quickly, find someone at the hotel who could take me to the police station. The roads in front of the Orchid were rapidly degrading into battle lines. It was no longer just the crackle of automatic fire I heard; there was the pitched whistling of bullets as well. They’re getting closer. It was a resurgence of violence that no one was expecting or could explain. Even hotel guests from the American embassy in Kinshasa, who presumably had access to sophisticated intelligence reports, were caught off guard and could provide little information.
I was on the third task, about to climb into the back of a wheezing old Peugeot, when Eric came running towards me from another vehicle. “Get behind a wall!” he shouted. “There are soldiers everywhere. They’ve started shooting.” Eric had lived through a violent coup in Sudan, and his instincts were unquestionably better than mine. As relieved as I was to see him, it was not the time to tell him.
We ran between two buildings. I was unfocused, rushing through different scenarios in my mind, none of them useful and all of them compounding my mounting anxiety. I’d faced several close calls in war zones before this one – attempted car ambushes, the sudden appearance of menacing men in berets and mirrored sunglasses – but never one in which I’d had time to think. And it’s only when you have time to think, unarmed in the midst of a fierce gunfight, that you understand how utterly and hopelessly fucked you really are.
During a lull in the shooting, Eric and I scrambled to the hotel lobby to find the other members of our team, none of whom had any war experience. It was then that I learned he and the others had escaped after convincing the security officials to follow them to the hotel to view the footage. Once confronted by the violence in the streets, their captors fled in the other direction. The team’s vehicle pressed on, fearing it would be more dangerous to remain separated from the rest of us.
After a torturous night of uninterrupted gunfire and sporadic shelling, a few more details emerged. The Congolese military had arrested a couple of Rwandan soldiers at the border crossing a short distance from our hotel, reigniting the conflict (it wasn’t clear which armed group they were associated with). Residents in the area were now trapped between these warring factions as they took shots at one another, and the only thing we could do was take cover and wait.
By late morning, the shelling had begun to intensify. Bullets ricocheted through the hotel kitchen window. Along with everyone else, Eric and I made frantic calls to UN authorities, trying to assess the security of our location and wondering whether we should risk moving. Unbelievably, the Internet in the business office was still working, and I managed to send a couple of emails to my mother in Toronto: “Everything okay. Departure slightly delayed. Back in a couple of days.” We have an unstated arrangement when I’m in the field: I don’t tell her where I’m going and she doesn’t ask, so long as I send her regular emails letting her know I’m alive. The advice we received from United Nations and Canadian government contacts over the phone was consistent: “Stay where you are, keep your heads down, and stand by for further instructions.” Two guests from the hotel came running up from the garden area saying they’d come under fire by the water’s edge. No one was injured, but it was an ominous warning: it meant we were in the militias’ crosshairs.
Shortly afterwards, it sounded as if the rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) were landing dangerously close – so close that I immediately dropped to the floor, prompting an unflinching Congolese man in the lobby, who’d obviously endured much worse, to jokingly say, “I see you do not enjoy the beautiful music we play here in the Congo.” It is still one of the most reassuring things anyone has ever said to me in the midst of a crisis. A few of the hotel staff had access to a small but impressively reinforced “panic room,” while the rest of us huddled together in what we deemed to be the safest area: a cramped guest room on the lowest level of the hotel, built into the side of a hilly ridge and protected on three sides. Of course, if an errant RPG were to have landed in the hotel lobby above our heads, the entire building would have collapsed upon us. Despite reassurances from UN officials that we were “not the targets” and therefore not likely to take a direct hit, a significant proportion of the roving armed groups were drunk and stoned teenage boys whose weapons training would have been limited to “Pull here.” Whether we were targets or not, the boys’ spectacularly bad aim was worth heeding.
At first, we casually mingled in the room, introducing ourselves to the other thirty or so people who’d taken refuge along with our team – local hotel staff, guests, and others who happened to be visiting when the shooting started and the roads became impassable. UN helicopters beat overhead and for hours it sounded as if the front line had landed right on top of us. During a momentary reprieve we filed out of the room, only to be forced back in by a sudden and dramatic escalation of explosions.
Eric and I crouched with the other members of our team at the back of the room, pressed against an armoire. People huddled together in the bathroom and under furniture, staying low to the floor. Mortars were landing on the hotel grounds. With each forceful bang, fine fragments of plaster showered down on us. But the worst was about to happen: the sound of running above our heads. Urgent, confused steps were heard between the eruptions of gunfire. Doors were repeatedly opened, then slammed – whoever it was, however many there were, they appeared to be searching for something, or someone.
No one dared speak. A man by the window reached above his head and gently pulled the curtain closed. Eric and I looked at one another, and I could tell by the pained expression on his face that we were having the same thought: “They’re in the building.” There was one other woman in the room – an American embassy employee. I knew it wouldn’t be long before she and I would be dragged outside and raped. And what would happen to the men? Some would be mercilessly killed as a statement about who’s really in charge of the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo. Others would be shot so that an itinerant group of pubescent boys might feel the rush of holding absolute power over life and death. After what had been a decade together, I knew that under no circumstances would Eric submit to the violence and degradation making its way towards us. More than anything, I wanted to tell him that he needn’t be brave, that brave meant certain death, and survival was all that mattered. Then, another bone-shattering bang, after which the footsteps could be heard directly outside our window. I couldn’t breathe.
Fear, in war, is absolute.
More than two hundred people were killed during the outbreak of armed conflict in Bukavu that cornered our team in late May 2004. To my shock and surprise (and enduring gratitude), it was not a group of rebel soldiers behind the door but a Canadian volunteer peacekeeper, Chuck Pelletier, armed only with a short wooden baton, the price tag still conspicuously attached. He’d been staying at the hotel on temporary assignment and was in regular communication with MONUC (the United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo) operatives. When it became clear that the risk had escalated, the...
I was travelling with a documentary crew, gathering footage for an hour-long feature on the Congo’s devastating war. Our team was set to leave the next day, so I returned to my room at the Orchid Hotel – a Belgian-run auberge on the sluggish shores of Lake Kivu – and continued packing. Half of our crew, which included my husband, Eric Hoskins, had not yet returned from filming. I did not expect to hear these words at my door: “Sam, Eric’s been detained. Security officials are holding him and the rest of the team at the police station, and have confiscated their passports and equipment. They want to see our footage.” Eric was negotiating for the others to be released after they were stopped for filming in the streets, and was offering himself up as collateral until the officials obtained what they wanted. We had UN permission to film, and this kind of brazen harassment of independent witnesses with camera gear is too often the prelude to atrocity. It was only then that I realized the gunfire we were hearing was a call to arms.
I made a list of discrete tasks: grab a few tapes of footage unlikely to be deemed sensitive and whatever cash we had left; call our contacts at the UN; and, quickly, find someone at the hotel who could take me to the police station. The roads in front of the Orchid were rapidly degrading into battle lines. It was no longer just the crackle of automatic fire I heard; there was the pitched whistling of bullets as well. They’re getting closer. It was a resurgence of violence that no one was expecting or could explain. Even hotel guests from the American embassy in Kinshasa, who presumably had access to sophisticated intelligence reports, were caught off guard and could provide little information.
I was on the third task, about to climb into the back of a wheezing old Peugeot, when Eric came running towards me from another vehicle. “Get behind a wall!” he shouted. “There are soldiers everywhere. They’ve started shooting.” Eric had lived through a violent coup in Sudan, and his instincts were unquestionably better than mine. As relieved as I was to see him, it was not the time to tell him.
We ran between two buildings. I was unfocused, rushing through different scenarios in my mind, none of them useful and all of them compounding my mounting anxiety. I’d faced several close calls in war zones before this one – attempted car ambushes, the sudden appearance of menacing men in berets and mirrored sunglasses – but never one in which I’d had time to think. And it’s only when you have time to think, unarmed in the midst of a fierce gunfight, that you understand how utterly and hopelessly fucked you really are.
During a lull in the shooting, Eric and I scrambled to the hotel lobby to find the other members of our team, none of whom had any war experience. It was then that I learned he and the others had escaped after convincing the security officials to follow them to the hotel to view the footage. Once confronted by the violence in the streets, their captors fled in the other direction. The team’s vehicle pressed on, fearing it would be more dangerous to remain separated from the rest of us.
After a torturous night of uninterrupted gunfire and sporadic shelling, a few more details emerged. The Congolese military had arrested a couple of Rwandan soldiers at the border crossing a short distance from our hotel, reigniting the conflict (it wasn’t clear which armed group they were associated with). Residents in the area were now trapped between these warring factions as they took shots at one another, and the only thing we could do was take cover and wait.
By late morning, the shelling had begun to intensify. Bullets ricocheted through the hotel kitchen window. Along with everyone else, Eric and I made frantic calls to UN authorities, trying to assess the security of our location and wondering whether we should risk moving. Unbelievably, the Internet in the business office was still working, and I managed to send a couple of emails to my mother in Toronto: “Everything okay. Departure slightly delayed. Back in a couple of days.” We have an unstated arrangement when I’m in the field: I don’t tell her where I’m going and she doesn’t ask, so long as I send her regular emails letting her know I’m alive. The advice we received from United Nations and Canadian government contacts over the phone was consistent: “Stay where you are, keep your heads down, and stand by for further instructions.” Two guests from the hotel came running up from the garden area saying they’d come under fire by the water’s edge. No one was injured, but it was an ominous warning: it meant we were in the militias’ crosshairs.
Shortly afterwards, it sounded as if the rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) were landing dangerously close – so close that I immediately dropped to the floor, prompting an unflinching Congolese man in the lobby, who’d obviously endured much worse, to jokingly say, “I see you do not enjoy the beautiful music we play here in the Congo.” It is still one of the most reassuring things anyone has ever said to me in the midst of a crisis. A few of the hotel staff had access to a small but impressively reinforced “panic room,” while the rest of us huddled together in what we deemed to be the safest area: a cramped guest room on the lowest level of the hotel, built into the side of a hilly ridge and protected on three sides. Of course, if an errant RPG were to have landed in the hotel lobby above our heads, the entire building would have collapsed upon us. Despite reassurances from UN officials that we were “not the targets” and therefore not likely to take a direct hit, a significant proportion of the roving armed groups were drunk and stoned teenage boys whose weapons training would have been limited to “Pull here.” Whether we were targets or not, the boys’ spectacularly bad aim was worth heeding.
At first, we casually mingled in the room, introducing ourselves to the other thirty or so people who’d taken refuge along with our team – local hotel staff, guests, and others who happened to be visiting when the shooting started and the roads became impassable. UN helicopters beat overhead and for hours it sounded as if the front line had landed right on top of us. During a momentary reprieve we filed out of the room, only to be forced back in by a sudden and dramatic escalation of explosions.
Eric and I crouched with the other members of our team at the back of the room, pressed against an armoire. People huddled together in the bathroom and under furniture, staying low to the floor. Mortars were landing on the hotel grounds. With each forceful bang, fine fragments of plaster showered down on us. But the worst was about to happen: the sound of running above our heads. Urgent, confused steps were heard between the eruptions of gunfire. Doors were repeatedly opened, then slammed – whoever it was, however many there were, they appeared to be searching for something, or someone.
No one dared speak. A man by the window reached above his head and gently pulled the curtain closed. Eric and I looked at one another, and I could tell by the pained expression on his face that we were having the same thought: “They’re in the building.” There was one other woman in the room – an American embassy employee. I knew it wouldn’t be long before she and I would be dragged outside and raped. And what would happen to the men? Some would be mercilessly killed as a statement about who’s really in charge of the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo. Others would be shot so that an itinerant group of pubescent boys might feel the rush of holding absolute power over life and death. After what had been a decade together, I knew that under no circumstances would Eric submit to the violence and degradation making its way towards us. More than anything, I wanted to tell him that he needn’t be brave, that brave meant certain death, and survival was all that mattered. Then, another bone-shattering bang, after which the footsteps could be heard directly outside our window. I couldn’t breathe.
Fear, in war, is absolute.
More than two hundred people were killed during the outbreak of armed conflict in Bukavu that cornered our team in late May 2004. To my shock and surprise (and enduring gratitude), it was not a group of rebel soldiers behind the door but a Canadian volunteer peacekeeper, Chuck Pelletier, armed only with a short wooden baton, the price tag still conspicuously attached. He’d been staying at the hotel on temporary assignment and was in regular communication with MONUC (the United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo) operatives. When it became clear that the risk had escalated, the...
