Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo April 11th
A late night phone call from an aggrieved professional boxer asking to see you may not be the kind of request anyone would wish to receive. But I’ve been kind of hoping for this call and am glad for it. There was a near riot the day before between this boxer’s supporters and those of Kibomango, the ex-child soldier, after the match between them was cancelled without explanation. Violence is not unfamiliar in this war zone and tensions were running high—things happened.
This boxer, Manda, knows who I am—he’s seen me around the city of Goma with a film crew and heard of me as the foreign backer of his opponent Kibomango. There is perception and there is reality. I hope to provide the latter. I also know that he will have his own axe to grind and it is important to hear him out—there is a need for peace between the two boxers and their fans and although professional boxing should involve a healthy show-business rivalry between adversaries, it is best that this not include street violence.
Manda arrives and is a compact, powerful man—a classic super welter build—who regards me with wary suspicion. He’s here with his manager and it is clear that he has something to say. A man of some education—he speaks good French, is relatively worldly and regards himself as such. I have to admire him for seeking out this meeting, which is very direct, and although he is aggrieved, there is no overt anger or aggression. There is, however, a desire to assert some sense of dignity.
I greet him as warmly as I can and we get down to business. His concern, he explains, is that he’d been attacked in the street the day before by people wearing Kibomango’s Club des Amitiés T shirts and that he regards me, as the creator of this informal team uniform, to be the link at the other end of it. He is not afraid of a clean professional combat, but in the ring, not the street.
At this point I feel like a parent called by their child’s teacher after a school yard fight. I’ll never really know who was to blame—the city was in a state of agitation all that day and Manda and his own side cannot be blameless. Still I am left wondering if I haven’t come close to aligning myself with and empowering a Congolese street gang. I give my word that I will take this up with Kibomango.
But Manda also has an agenda—to point out that he is a refined, technical boxer in contrast to what he calls Kibomango’s “savage” style. There is a strong element of local snobbery here. Manda is a more educated man and Kibomango is, well, an ex child soldier. But one can see in Manda’s narrative an assertion of dignity even if it is dressed up in terms of social hierarchy. I salute him for that at least.
In Kibomango’s humble origins and lack of education, which he makes no pretense of denying, there is much to admire. People without means or sophisticated knowledge have as much innate intelligence and integrity as anyone. In their battles with life and poverty, the struggle for dignity, these people are very much alive to all the drives of the human condition, will meet you on all the same levels. I have met very poor people since arriving here and treat every one of them as someone important—the poor are to be respected
One of my first jobs straight out of grad school was to conduct an evaluation of a US food aid programme in Mozambique, at the time the poorest country in the world. The programme had involved selling US maize on the local market. Corn in North America and Europe is yellow and people in Southern Africa don’t like it—they prefer local, white maize. In food aid terms this is perfect—it means that the product is “self-selecting”, only the poor will want it and it will be cheaper, selling at a discount to the more preferred white maize and providing a lower cost food source without distorting the market.
Part of the job involved an impact assessment by house hold survey. I chose Beira, a declining port city in an area of the country that had been the most heavily impacted by Mozambique’s, then just ended, civil war and was the slowest to recover afterword; next the poorest neighbourhood in the city and, finally, the most vulnerable households. These were among the poorest people in the poorest country in the world. We went from house to house with our surveys, explaining what we were doing and asking for permission to interview the occupants.
I remember them all very well. There were families who were struggling, people who were displaced from the countryside but hadn’t yet returned, old and abandoned people. I can recall one household made entirely of single mothers who had banded together. I was an outsider and hardly an equal in this situation but no one asked anything of me and patiently answered my questions.
Most aid work involves these kinds of unequal relationships, are inherent to it, no matter what those involved may think or do. International aid is the exercise of power—even if benign power for the most part—over the lives of other, poorer, people and countries.
On an individual level this same principle carries over. As a foreigner you are assumed to be wealthy and powerful by virtue of who you are and, in comparative terms, it is, sadly, true much of the time. This colours, amplifies and distorts relationships. On some level people want or expect something from you and, inevitably, it means that behaviour can be channeled toward that on some basis, subtle and unsubtle, unconcious or not. Often you can be told what you want to hear. Just as often you will be called upon to play roles that, by default, you have the relative capacity to play. The avenues available for philanthropic, altruistic or other endeavour can be near limitless. Although these are things that cannot be escaped, it does well to be aware of them; if the principles and the actions are good, whether you are manipulated or not will matter less. Otherwise belief in ones own neutrality is a chimera—by observing something you change it.
The fact that I have been called on to play some kind of role in Congolese boxing—a role which I‘ve been trying to avoid and am completely unqualified for—is one case in point. It also underpins the conversation I am having right now. It is unlikely that I would be sitting across the table from a boxer who was a contender in Europe or North America. Manda is an intelligent and interesting man. Although he does not say it, he must resent the fact that his opponent now has the—assumed—advantage of a foreigner backer.
But our encounter ends amicably. We agree to a mediation with both teams to find an understanding between professionals. That meeting, when it happens, is successful on those terms. It also ends with what I’d known would be inevitable: I am asked to be the promoter of the next fight. Now the morphing into that role is complete.