DRC: A shirt on someone’s back

The Kivu Assistance and Reintegration Centre, Goma, Nord-Kivu February 19^th 2011

Students of the Kivu Assistance and Reintegration Centre: many, like this one, are ex-soldiers.

The police truck must have been going pretty fast when it hit that telephone pole in Goma—it T-boned the front of the vehicle perfectly, slicing through the engine compartment like a giant wedge. There was a riot by university students on this spot yesterday, broken up by police gunfire, and most likely the accident is connected to that. Yes, there is a university in Goma. There is no one around now and the vehicle is abandoned—it is 630 on a Saturday morning and I’m on the back of a motorcycle taxi lugging freight across town, or at least a large duffel bag full of t-shirts. We are holding kind of a town hall meeting this morning with the staff and students of the Kivu Assistance and Reintegration Centre, ostensibly an update on what we are doing and what they can expect—that we are making progress and can probably move to our new computer lab next week, which we are kitting out with computers, a printer and furniture. This will end the current, ridiculous, situation of teaching a computer class to 75 students with a single lap top. We actually have three, but because there is no power anywhere in Goma today this is all we can use. We are also going to hand out t-shirts—with a snappy design and logo for our centre—as kind of a thank you and demonstration of faith in their commitment to the course and, I might add, us. Truth be told, I’d rather be in bed, less than a day out from a typhoid diagnosis, but I’d feel like a rat backing out at this point. And anyway I never did get to stage three symptoms—delirium and picking at imaginary objects.

All the staff and students of the Centre are present and a short speech is given on our side—by me. It feels a bit like Christmas, doing this, handing out presents. But esprit de corps counts and having what amounts to a uniform, plus ID cards for staff, and new books and teaching materials is meant to show some momentum and seriousness of purpose. I almost conceive of this event—like much of what we are doing—as a demonstration of self-will in conjuring a strongly functioning NGO and set of programmes into being.

I also have the opportunity to observe the students more closely; they are simply dressed, some a bit ragged, but not necessarily destitute. Some have walked up to 10kms to get to this class. As they come in, it is more apparent who everyone is and Ferdinand, our coordinator, who is at my side, leans in and points out their status. This is a demobilised soldier, this is a street boy, that is a single Mother. The demobilised become easier to spot—they have a distinct air about them, the first thing being the semi-vacant stare and languid manner. Some are withdrawn and silent, showing no spark or enthusiasm for anything—all classic signs of trauma. One young man, tall and powerfully built, regards everything with a confused but angry stare, not taking his eyes off of me the whole time. But most of the rest seem relaxed, and rather joyful. Mention that they will soon get to move to a computer lab with actual access to computers produces a spontaneous cheer.

Afterword Ferdinand and I walk a short distance down the road to see the space we are renting for our future computer lab. By this time there is heavy traffic on the road—the same road where the riot was the day before. But the first nuisance we encounter is a ragged, wild eyed man who lurches towards us, saying he’s a pastor and insists on greeting us with moist and dirty hands. This is kind of what it’s like walking the streets here; everyone wants to talk to you and not all of them are good people. But we reach our destination without mishap, which is the courtyard of a two story commercial building owned by a senior police official and who, for $120/month, will rent us a low single story out-building in the yard about 12 x 30 feet long. It aint much, but it’s our new home and, whatever else, it is safe.

The first person we run into in the courtyard coming out of a small room, in a t-shirt and underwear, is the immigration official I’d met a month earlier at the Rwanda-Congo frontier post when coming into the country and was shaken down for a bribe. With a toothbrush in his mouth and looking like he’s just gotten up, he seems surprised to see me and, also, a bit sheepish. The advantage is mine. But we greet each other and I reply that yes, I remember him very well and that I’m enjoying Goma just fine.

This is why Congo’s horrendous corruption does actually have some natural limits. People have to live together and corrupt officials can’t take it too far—everyone knows where they live. Policemen getting beaten up—in or out of uniform—is a fairly common occurrence. The only exception to this informal, unwritten, balance between society and the representatives of the state, are soldiers—people who can more or less do what they wish with impunity, at least in rural areas or outside Goma, all the way up to pillage, rape and murder. Otherwise, grievance about the charges extracted by officials who are gate keepers for administrative processes, laws or regulation, is a touchstone of life in Congo.  Such officials are unloved—are essentially looked upon as a scavenging sub-class, like jackals or hyenas, or an unpleasant fact of life, like bad weather or disease. As for foreigners—we are fair game as far as graft is concerned. We aren’t around that long typically, or mix in the same circles and, anyway, have a lot of money and should share some of it, willingly or not.

Extracting myself from the immigration official, who is happy to end our conversation, we head for the computer lab. It is still under renovation with a half finished concrete floor, but is supposed to be ready shortly. A tape measure is produced and we set to spacing out room for desks and chairs which we are going to commission today from a carpenter. Ten used computers isn’t much for 75 students but at least we can hot seat them and break up the class into more manageable sizes. And, anyway, it’s a start.